KC completed her BA degree requirements for CSUN by taking courses at ASU in the Summer of 1988

KC's story continues in a large format "Deluxe Hawkes Journal", "Lined on Quality Paper" and "Signature Sewn and Bound in Library Buckram Cover" in one of eight different colors!  (Being red-green-color-challenged, it looks mostly red to me, but green or even brown are also possibilities.)  

This journal spans March 16th through September 12th of 1988. 

    I'm at a turning point in my life.  I can feel it.  Part of me is very overexcited.  Every day I tell myself, you're good – not perfect, but good.  Lovable.  How many of us really believe that, that we're lovable?  The curse of the human race. 

    When I started doing that with myself I found it easier to do that with the people around me.  Found myself reaffirming more often with Miles that he is good and I love him.  And with Peter, too.  A long time now I've known that if I ever got my strength back I'd have a lot to give.  And that's where I'm at now. 

    Perfect is dead, as we imagine perfect to be.  Our so-called flaws are the doors by which the possibility of life and change can enter. 

    In a little while I go pick up Miles.  Then maybe go get some paint so I can keep working on the back room.  These chores are anchors.  Or roots.  A way of being loyal to the present moment.  There's a great deal to be said for that.  Discontent is useful in life, as a way to spur us to action, but there should also be an adequate amount of satisfaction.  Pleasure at the flower that just bloomed outside the door or the beautiful breeze that glides by.  Noting the moment's own intrinsic value, even if the message is a painful one, a mixed blessing.  After all, all our blessings are mixed, aren't they? 

    I have to get ready to get Miles.  There's nothing like having a child to set you in the present, the now of life.  For some time now in this country the emphasis has been on the thrill, the excitement to come.  As I get older I find myself thinking, not too much excitement, please.  Let my life evolve in the fullness of time, let me grow according to God's plan.  I don't want unlimited thrills.  I want meaning in my life.  I want to act, but I also want to reflect.  I don't want to miss the experience of being.  Guess I'm getting closer to a sense of my own mortality.

    If all one's former gods are dead and one is left confronting oneself and the ground of one's being, doesn't it seem a vast, empty plain stretches out before one, vacant of any marks, any landscape?  But think, I might be describing the blank canvas, the bare white paper which confronts the artist.  One goes back to the beginning of time, faced with an infinity of choices, or so it seems.  Yet in fact life very quickly intrudes.  The canvas and paper are also part of creation, not illusion, but part of reality.  Creating is one of the things that we do, imagining our lives into the here and now.  The tree outside my window reminds me of other trees, of other sunny afternoons when the breezes blew and the sky was cloudless.  Particular trees, particular afternoons, particular images matter to me.  Not the vague, archetypal tree, but trees that suggested a certain sunny afternoon emotion.  I was moved by the sunlight on the green leaves, the dappled light, the suggestion that God, too, keeps returning over and over to the beauty formed by afternoon trees, as if to elicit from us a response, a particular response.  This is what artists try to do, it's the only reason I can imagine for painting. 

    I always think there are questions behind objects, whether created by God or us.  To some extent, the question is always the same, with variations: "Do you love me?"  That seems to be the bottom line.  No wonder the shrinks write about the importance of Eros.

    I suppose that is what I'm saying about my life.  I still love, but I love more quietly. I've learned that love that lasts must be love that is patient.  The question, "Do you love me?" percolates through time.  Without the question time would have no reason for being.  Obviously patience and love go together – God has decreed this from the start.

    Perhaps there will be times in the future when I will once again get to be a heroine in my own story.  There are days when I wonder why I feel so bored with myself, wonder if that's okay.  I'm actually worried because my life is peaceful!  I remember well how often I longed for peaceful days, but human nature is such that one always craves some state other than the one one is actually in. 

    Being reflective is a constant in my life but the sense of urgency has dropped off somewhat.  Which means I think that I've finally outgrown the adolescent stage of life.  In recent years I've come to face my problem with finishing things.  Process gives me a way of answering the question that life carries within itself.  One reaches the conclusion that death is part of the process, hard as that is to understand.  I no longer feel the need to be defined by what I'm resisting.  This has been a major transition in my life.  In fact, I've stopped worrying so much about what or who will define me.  I suppose I think that's up to God, that I will meet each moment as best I can, as flexibly, undogmatically as I can. 

    In my previous state of mind, sometimes a glimpse of my present way of thinking would shine forth, a ray of light on a cloudy day.  When you are raised in a very dogmatic tradition, it can be very difficult to break away from the dogmatic style of thinking, even if one breaks away from the dogma itself.  Verities are very comforting when one is frightened.  They give courage to people when they're threatened by chaos. 

    I've started seeing more clearly how finishing one thing allows you to go onto the next step.  I've learned to respect my own inner clock, too – there are times when I'm just not up to a task and that's okay.  But generally I feel, if it's worth starting, it's worth finishing.  I guess I've been pretty neurotic most of my life.  I've had to puzzle my way to appropriate behavior because growing up I saw so little of it. 

    I tell myself it's okay if I need to slow down, that my ever impatient father is not standing over me, demanding that I perform according to his specs.  I was so frightened of my father that the Image of him has tended to dominate much of my life — I'm still dealing with his bad temper, impatience, and frustration.  I have those qualities, too, and have to be careful, as careful as he should have been. 

    Speaking of finishing things, I'm going to paint the patches left on the ceiling and then the rest of the floor.  I felt the old tug of resistance when I looked at the work that remained to be done this morning and so I set to writing after an initial burst of work.  Lately I find that writing gives me the breather I need to maintain momentum.  Writing in my journal allows me to acknowledge my feelings.  I'm used to the paralyzing effect of ignoring my emotions, and am sick of it.  I recognize that as I get busier, I'll have less time to write, but it's become my official outlet in times of stress.  I never feel bored when I'm writing.  In fact lately I've returned to the idea of writing stories.

    The dog work of procedure is everywhere, perhaps most notable when one does creative work.  Best then, to love the work for itself, best to admire the process involved, the doing of the work.  Tacky glamour or success as defined by the consumer culture can't sustain my willingness to do the hard labor involved in the type of work I want to do.  Lately I've come to realize that if we're to help Miles get launched into adult life we'll need more money than Peter's salary alone can provide.  So to some extent I need to work.  But I'm not sorry for the years I've taken to consider the need for change in my life.  My father was a violent, abusive parent.  I didn't want to perpetuate the pattern.  But good intentions alone won't do it.  I knew that because I listened to my father boast how different from his parents he was going to be.  Wishing didn't make it so. 

    I don't believe I've figured it all out!  But I feel like I've established enough guidelines for myself as a parent that I can afford to expand my role in society.  That's why I decided to go back to school, see if I could get on the right career path, and so forth. 

                  I feel like I have a lot of things coming up, a lot of practical matters to attend to.  Things I'm excited about, but nervous, too.  It's been awhile since I've attended classes at a real university; even though it's just summer school, I'm scared – of what, I don't know.  Perhaps because I'll be finishing my degree.  I guess I prolonged adolescence a long time.  But I'm not sure about those old categories of life.  I've been a responsible mother and wife the last fourteen years.  No, this is a stage, a right of passage that society doesn't recognize or celebrate.  I have to make my own ritual.  Maybe that's what I sense going on, the need to establish my own rituals within the family.  Rites of passage should be noted, I feel.  It's a way of saying I believe in effective change; it’s a mark of faith to do what I'm doing now.  I should be joyful instead of doubtful.  The fact is, for me, this is an act of courage.  It's a small thing in some ways, but for me to do this I've had to overcome a whole series of problems and setbacks.  I guess I was waiting for a special moment to fill out the paperwork for registration because I don't want to pass this off as another mundane chore. 

        I know that what I really want to do, what this is the first step towards, is getting a Masters in philosophy.  And I'd like to go still further and get a Doctorate.  Partly for the sake of the process, to meet the challenge of the work.  Partly out of love for the subject.   Partly to make a statement about myself, as a means of self-expression. 

        What's difficult is that I still have so many lingering doubts about my ability to express myself.  I wrote a letter to my sister about the origins of my self-doubt, our parents continual denigration of us kids — our continual resistance to them.  And recently I've come to see how much I dislike defining myself in terms of resistance to them.  It's a defensive posture, out of balance.  I'm out of touch with my own aggression, my own drive.  Consequently I spend a great deal of my time of time daydreaming about what I might yet do.  Not the same as actually doing doing it.  Perhaps women have been kept daydreaming for a long time now, caught by circumstances that restricted self-expression to having children.  Is that why I feel that fundamentally I'm breaking some taboo?  I don't know, but the feeling of danger persists.  Is it just that I have to inflate the nature of the beast, or am I really taking on something risky? 

      It's still hard for me to believe that these things I do – this writing, my painting, going to school – which I feel so good about — are okay.  These rituals which convey life to me are good.  The old way certainly got a grip on the soul.  It's like I'm saying, "Gee, I don't have to hurt myself."  I don't have to hate myself, punish myself. 

      Be responsible, yes.  This is no picnic.  I find I'm juggling a lot.  It would be easier not to.  I'm not sure if that isn't just another way to punish myself sometimes, sort of a set-up.  This is a tricky area for me, this one of pacing. 

      I'm setting up a schedule this summer that strikes me as demanding. 

First five-week session: 

     ENG 342  9:20 – 10:50 daily 

     BIO  330  11:00 – 12:30 daily 

Second five-week session: 

     WST 300   9:20 – 10:50 daily 

     SOC 301    2:20 –  3:50 daily 

      It's that long chunk of space in the second five-week session that's going to be a headache.  11:00 to 2:30, roughly.  A long lunch.  But time I could spend studying.  In order to do well I have to study a lot.  If Miles' summer camp starts at 9:00, I'll have to pay extra in order to start him at about 8:00.  And in the second session I'll have to pay more in order to start him at eight and pick him up at five. 

      Payment by mail is April 27, payment in person is May 5.  Tuition is 67.00 per semester hour.  Wow.  $804. for the summer. 

      The 1st 5-week session goes from May 31 through July 1.  The 2nd 5-week semester goes from July 5 through Aug. 5. 

      Well, it's been decided, I have the form filled out.  We've got some big expenses coming up.  I'll also have to pay for books and parking.  No more money to do stuff on the house.  No money for vacations.  What am I going to do if Miles gets sick?  I'd have to hire a nurse, I guess. Big expense there. 

    Miles is making a get-well card tonight.  Seeing what a perfectionist he is about drawing drives me crazy – I want him to feel spontaneous about his art.  At the same time I recognize the impulse.  One of those balancing acts is needed, the kind where you weigh ability against desire. 

   When I was in art school in the Seventies everyone seemed very confused to me.  I would have liked to have had a teacher who took a stand on developing skill.  Instead there was lots of theorizing.  You can think about art until you're blue in the face – I know because I have – but the doing is so important.  You learn by doing.  That's why I took the jobs I did, to train my eye and hand with letter forms.  I'd say it's worked out pretty well – I see distinct progress between the work I do now and the work I did as a kid. 

    Perhaps more important, I matured as a human being.  Now I feel ready to be of service, ready to put my art to use — to express what I see about the world around me. 

    I just got through looking at our budget.  I feel confused; where does the money go?  It always seems like such large numbers, the bills are large, too. 

    Somewhere along the way I got addicted to excitement.  It's one of the reasons I have a hard time sitting still, relaxing, painting, whatever.  As a kid my life was stultifying, but I didn't question that too much.  As I grew older, I rebelled.  I wanted to absorb the whole world, take it all in. 

     I did lots of thinking, lots of analyzing, which was helpful, but not the same as reflecting.  Reflecting was when I was a kid and sat daydreaming in a field, listening to the drone of airplanes overhead.  Reflecting now is when I catch the way the palm trees blow in the wind, when I work on my garden and notice the structure of the plants changing as they grow.  Reflecting is when I sit in Miles' room at night, watching the planes take off and land at the airport. 

     Slowing down is okay.  I don't have to be in a mad rush to do anything.  Even now as I write, a windstorm has blown up.  We picked this neighbor-hood because of the large old trees that line the street.  We also planted a few trees of our own.  There's time to enjoy the wind. 

     Writing in my journal helps me to slow down, get my bearings.  When we lived in Thousand Oaks [CA] I hardly ever wrote, or painted.  I was forced to go back to zero, to just nothing.  It was like a drought. 

     I had to learn how to let go of myself, I had to learn how to deal with loss. 

     I learned that though God may take away, He always gives.  I found out that I hadn't really known what faith was at all, because it certainly wasn't a case of following the rules I'd been given as a kid. 

     When I was a kid we were supposed to take our punishment without complaint.  The thing I remember most is getting punished for things I didn't do. 

     I'm still carrying around a lot of pain.  I still feel incredibly thin-skinned.  I still feel afraid. 

     But I also feel hopeful and excited about going back to school.  Thinking about getting a part-time job.  Thinking about getting higher degrees.  And for the first time in my life I'm really living for me. 

     I love the world of ideas.  And I love art.  I feel ready to work on a smaller, more accessible scale. 

     I'd like to do some paintings that would express both a sense of solidity and light, which are two things I notice most about the Southwest.

      I'm wound up these days, unable to really relax.  I'm overexcited about going to school, overexcited about life, in general.  I mean, all the things we’re doing.  I'm afraid to be happy.  That sounds so wrong to me, like denying God the gratitude rightfully His.  Like begrudging someone your happiness when they give you a great present. 

      From childhood on I've had an overwhelming sense of tenuousness about life.  Love came and went as swiftly as clouds on a windy day passing the face of the sun.  I don't know if I can ever recover from the sense of flinching at every movement.  Which means I can't relax enough to enjoy myself during happy times like these. I feel like I have to quickly do something to forestall disaster.  In fact, my doing something right now is more likely to be the cause of disaster, but old habits are hard to break. 

      It's okay for me to feel overexcited about all this change for good in my life.  It's a natural feeling under the circumstances.  This emotion makes me want to run down the street singing and dancing.  I want to do everything all at once.  I want to snap my fingers and have a new life, just like that.  But if there's anything I've learned over the years it's that process is everything.  It's the slow process of creating a new life that carries the meaning.

      So the mundane steps along the way are the really exciting part.  The shedding of old skin leaves me pretty tender at the moment, pretty raw with nerves.  But the process of making a better life will firm me up, make me a realistic contender for the world I have to deal with. 

      So, time to do some work, some drawing exercises, some straightening up.  Time to start living that new life.  Serenity.  Serenity is the goal.