In grad school, I learned the word, “meta.” After one year of listening to professors and students frequently weave this word into formal and informal conversation, I am still not quite sure if I understand exactly what the word means. But if pressed to give a definition, I’d say that “meta” means to think about thinking. You consider how your personal paradigm affects your approach to a subject, and then you break down your biases and analyze your thought processes along the way.
Abe is the first person I met outside of school that used the word “meta” in normal conversation. After getting to know him better, I realized that the reason he needs this word is because his very favorite hobby–and I am not making this up–is thinking. Whenever I watch him absent-mindedly stare off into space while masticating a meal I spent hours preparing, I remind myself that he is part Greek and can’t be blamed just because he likes to think about thinking.
I, on the other hand, am perfectly content to live without almost any meta in my life. The other day I found myself thinking too much as I wrote in my journal, and so I closed it and concentrated very hard on my bedroom quilt. My grandmother worked for 10 years on my quilt, and it is one of my heart-happy treasures. Looking at the gorgeous quilt solved my problems better than thinking ever could, and I went on to have a very happy day.
But sometimes–on rare occasions–I notice a theme in my thoughts. Some inarticulate question tugs at the back of my mind, forcing me to revisit a troublesome subject. My first instinct is to push it away, but the thought persists, and I find myself working through a series of questions, little by little. A little here while standing in line at the store, a little there while setting the table for dinner. Lately those troublesome questions have centered around blogging, and I woke this morning to discover the question pressed more than ever, and now I suspect–dare I admit it?–that I need to go meta on blogging.
I understand the risks! If you weren’t bored to tears by the first few paragraphs, it’s quite likely that by now you have decided that there are better uses for your time and have redirected to another more exciting web page. In that case, please enjoy your leisurely, meta-free time on the internet. I would do exactly the same if I were you. But at this moment, I am not you–I am me, and the me that I am wants to walk down this potentially almost certainly boring train of thought. Therefore, from this point forward I assume I am writing for myself, and I’m giving myself permission to be completely honest and introspective as I try to work out what blogging means to me.
Or what I hope it doesn’t mean. The troubling question that keeps nagging at me centers on whether blogging is an exercise in narcissism or not. After all, I am projecting on screen, in words and pictures, an image about my life, my thoughts, my experiences. And, often as not, I hit the little icon at the end of the blog which publishes the post to facebook, thereby guaranteeing a spike of viewer visits to the blog. So there seem to be two pieces to blogging: the create-and-project-me part, and then the publishing part. What part of this me-centric process is justifiable–or, for that matter, even time-worthy?
At this point, my thoughts wander to other people’s blogs. I love reading other people’s blogs! Many are gorgeous works of art, filled with beautiful photos depicting children, food, and loving homes. I feel inspired and reassured to know there are so many good people in the world who love their families and who take the time to document their lives in such an artistic way. Sadly, I know my blog is not like theirs. I have absolutely zero photographic talent, and so I need to find meaning for my little blog outside of the realm of aesthetic gratification.
I read other blogs by hobbyists who document amazing crafts and who teach others how to do the same. I love these blogs, too, and although I have dabbled in the creation of crafty blog entries, I know that this is not my specialty either. Up until this point in my life, crafts have played a pretty minor role in my life, and to all of the sudden create a full-blown craft blog would be out of place–not to mention impossible.
I also read funny blogs. While some of the entries here may be a little funny, more often than not, my entries are just day to day observations on my life, and that’s not always particularly entertaining.
There are also political blogs, but by no stretch of the imagination is this one of those.
So what’s left? And if there even is anything left, why write it?
Here’s one potential answer I found this morning as I read the introduction to Laurel Thatcher Ulrich’s book, Well-Behaved Women Seldom Make History. Although her original intent when coining this phrase was to “help recover the lives of otherwise obscure women,” the phrase is now trumpeted on bumper stickers and t-shirts as a celebration of socially deviant behavior. This is especially ironic, considering Ulrich is a practicing Mormon who started her career (now culminated in a professorship at Harvard) making the lives of seemingly “well-behaved” women into documented history.
But I digress. What interested me most about her introduction was Ulrich’s explanation that the very act of documenting one’s life is a choice. As she wrote her Pulitzer prize winning book about an 18th century midwife, Ulrich explains that this midwife was by no means “a mover and a shaker,” but she did choose to keep a journal–and therefore chose to be a visible, documented presence in the world. That’s what made her different, and that’s what made her history.
A couple months ago I stopped hunting for a job. Abe and I decided together that our lives are richest when I am at home, cooking, cleaning, and creating, to the best of my ability, a kind of haven-home from the outside world. My whole life, all I have ever really wanted is to do exactly what I do these days. I love all aspects of homemaking and can even find purpose and joy in cleaning the toilet. (It sounds gross and unbelievable, but it’s so true.)
But I can say that the more I sink into these domestic patterns, the less my life feels like it counts outside the walls of my home. Maybe that feeling is or isn’t true, but the feeling is there either way. I often think back to the guest lecturers who spoke to us in grad school about educational reform and the importance of using education as a means of social activism, and I shudder to think what some of them might say about my present choices.
Nevertheless, this life is my choice, and furthermore, I seem to be choosing to document that through this medium. Not to make history–but, I suppose, to be visible. That motive doesn’t seem noble or altruistic, but it feels pretty basic. Everyone wants their life to count, right? I know enough to understand the blogging in itself does not make my life matter, but when I can write about my experiences–humdrum as those often are–I feel a little more complete.
So I guess I have more thinking to do on this subject, because I don’t feel like I’ve come to any conclusive answers about the purpose of blogging. I still feel ambivalent towards my blog, but I know I’m going to keep writing–regardless of whether people read or not. But for now I think I will take a break and stare at my grandmother’s quilt. It really is so pretty.
And then we had Christmas in Utah. Abe’s mom used to get Abe and his brothers pj pants from a brand called “Uglies.” The fabric on the front and back of each leg in an Ugly is different, and for a while there the brand went out of business (I wonder why?). I decided to make them all Uglies for Christmas, and the hours upon hours of sewing yielded the following garish results:
Abe’s grandfather was a professor of art at BYU, and one of my favorite books in the house is a collection of his paintings and poems. It is delightful! I think Abe’s grandfather was way ahead of his time; decades before Michael Pollan and other contemporaries spotlighted the corruption of corporate agriculture, Alexander wrote poems contemplating the benefits of whole grains and painted pieces like this one, entitled, “Three Billion Served.” The photo of the picture is a little fuzzy, but if you look hard, you can make out the ghostly outlines of cows facing an open McDonald’s Big Mac carton.
Here’s the baby’s room in its current state. Obviously, it still undergoing the guest-to-baby room transformation, but I look in here at the soft colors and sunlight, and my heart feels happy.
