work.

I far-too-easily get caught in the 'work-ness' of work lately, conceptualizing my writing as a job, as stress, as an overwhelming and undesirable task. This is how we tend to think of work. "The dissertation" looms as a formidable task, its moniker uttered by others with a combination of awe and fear. And though I rarely forget the privilege of what I do (something chosen, not forced, that does not endanger my life, that allows me freedom and independence and thought), I often forget the pleasure.

Today, I remember the pleasure, the beauty of thinking, of crafting sentences, of weaving narratives of life and theory. I remember that I've chosen to pursue interests that I think--hope--resonate beyond academia's sometimes-impenetrable walls. And, I remember what I learn, beyond the philosophies, theories, books (which I love).

My body revolts lately. My response to stress is physical, and thus my interventions are also physical. This week, I was craniosacrally therapied, and engaged in my normal body-beating exercise. Monday's running cleared my head, but left my knee a wreck (I'm still limping); other attempts at exercise elicited less pain and less relief; I finally settled on swimming for its impacts (on joints, less; overall, more). Despite and because of this, stress today manifests in swollen muscles. I list these complaints not for general whining, nor to evoke sympathy, nor to offer excuses, but because they intrude when attempting to sit still and write and think. They can feel like excuses to walk away, to take a nap, to do anything but maintain this primarily mental activity. This, combined with the solitude of writing, and the aforementioned sneaky and pejorative perspectives on work, only intensifies all of these. I'm lost in my head, struggling not with the work, but with myself, my seemingly lacking will and inspiration.

And then, in the process of this struggle, I read this:

"I'm not disabled, I just don't have any legs."

This, a noble comment for anyone in such a scenario, was uttered by Oscar Pistorius, a South African competitive sprinter, when he was 18.

Pretty cool.

As a result, I do feel like a whiner, but one laughing at herself. My struggles? Not that big a deal, with a little perspective. My inspiration? To give Pistorius (and the rest of us) a critical read, a theoretical ground, a new epistomology for his self-philosophy.

Yeah, I love my job.