Tipping Point

Sometimes I think all of us are walking along the edge of a precipice, some of us a little closer to the brink than others; but all of us are walking along in a single file, stepping one careful step in front of another day after day after day. 

When I picture this, I think about how close some of us are to falling right off.

One decision.  One moment.  One missed step. 

What’s the thing that finally tips some of us over? 

And then I wonder about those of us who stay steady on the line.  Those of us who keep walking, who never fall, no matter what.

What keeps those people from tipping over?

Inner strength?  Faith?  Love?  Good balance?

Unarranged.

Arrangement (n) 1. The process of organizing materials with respect to their provenance and original order, to protect their context and to achieve physical or intellectual control over the materials.  2. The organization and sequence of items within a collection
                                                                                                                Society of American Archivists Glossary

If there is no discernible arrangement, then enter the word ―Unarranged.‖
                                                                                                                The Standards

One of the most important concepts in my line of work is that of arrangement.  One can preserve an arrangement.  Or impose an arrangement.  Or even perfect an arrangement – place the emphasis on the second syllable because if you have a perfect (emphasis on the first syllable) arrangement, there is really no need to perfect (back to emphasizing that second syllable) the arrangement. 

Arrangement is my favorite thing as an archivist.  It’s a lot more than just making sure the folders, err files, are in A-B-C order – although, admittedly there is a bit of that – no, arrangement is the physical and intellectual act of organizing materials so that they are accessible for use.  It helps the people who ultimately use the materials.    

There is an order, a sequence, a pattern.  Things make sense.

Then there are the materials that have no order, no sequence, no pattern.  It is all unarranged.  Some theorists call that original chaos.  It’s up to the archivist to impose an order or leave it in its original chaotic state – and just, you know, write a folder list. 

Arrangement is not my favorite thing as Denise.

I look at my purse, my home, my life and all I see is original chaos.  Everything is   

Unarranged.         

Reflections of the Way Life Used to Be

“And now the journey is over, too short, alas too short.  It was filled with adventure and wisdom, laughter and love, gallantry and grace.” 
                                                                                Maurice Tempelsman
                                                                                (My Senior Quote)

Even though I never lettered - much
less played - in a sport, I had a
varsity jacket

Last night Friday night was my 15 year high school reunion.  I didn’t go.  Mainly because it was in the city and I would’ve had to take a train and there isn’t much that I hate more than taking the train into the city.  Oh, and I really didn’t want to go.  Most likely, there would’ve been mingling (at which I am so stellar).  Then after the rousing rendition of “Reunited [and it feels so good]” and the initial pleasantries, I probably would’ve sat in the corner awkwardly examining the train schedule to figure out the next train back to suburbia.     

It’s not that I don’t look back on high school with fondness.  I do.  Well, not “my high school was exactly like Degrassi and I’d go back in a second” fondness but more of “it was fun to have a locker” kinda fondness.  High school wasn’t the best time of my life but it wasn’t the worst time of my life either (for the record – that was roughly 2001 to 2003).  I wasn’t a popular girl, a bad girl, or even a mean girl.  I wasn’t a freak and I wasn’t a geek.  I wasn’t even a misfit or an outsider…although in high school don’t we all feel like misfits and outsiders?

Does anyone know what
an El Delator actually is?

I was solidly middle of the road in high school.  I wasn’ t super smart but I wasn’t dumb even though I never quite got the hang of algebra.  While I got along with most of my classmates, I had a small group of friends that I hung out with – in the cafeteria, during free periods, and under the Friday night football lights.  I endured bullying although I never considered it that; choosing instead to walk down different hallways so I could avoid the upperclassmen offenders.  I was in the girl’s locker room after gym when I found out that Kurt Cobain died.  I never cheated, got a detention, or had to visit the school disciplinarian.  I didn’t cut on Senior Cut Day.  I was sitting in math class (Pre-Calc) when O. J. Simpson was acquitted because the glove did not fit.  I hated every school picture ever taken of me.   I was in the audience when Hillary Clinton came to speak at my school.  I made the honor roll for most of my academic career and received the History Department’s Excellence Award in senior year.  I wasn’t on any sport teams and the only extracurricular club that I was involved in was Students for Environmental Action (SEA) and that was only as a favor to a friend.  I went to all the Homecoming dances but skipped the Prom.   I never had perfect attendance.   
 
All in all, I was a typical high school student. 

I think it took me almost 15 years to realize that.    

Cheers to the Class of 1997.  Maybe I’ll make it to our 20 year reunion.

But only if it’s in the suburbs. 

Night

I ate Oreos at 10:45, a late bedtime snack.  Now, it’s a little after midnight and I can’t fall asleep. 

I tossed and I turned and I kicked off my comforter and I flopped from my side to my stomach and back again and all the while I was thinking.  Thinking about all the things that I’m able to push away during the day.  Because when it’s light out, things don’t seem so….dark.   

My thoughts are always darkest at night…well, if I’m awake late enough. 

I thought I was doing so well – I was making peace with the way I "look".  Yes, I look different but everyone’s different and that’s okay.  But I told you once that I still thought about it every once in a while.  More surgery.  A cheekbone here, a cheekbone there.  (Well, not just anywhere, of course; they should go where cheekbones generally go.)      

There was a trigger, naturally.  Because there always is when I start thinking like this.  What was it?  Okay, don’t laugh…but it was my race photograph (the official one they posted on the website for everyone to see, if you think I'm going to link to it, you're crazy!)  I look quite horrible…as I’m sure the other 396 runners do.  In addition to my dreadful running sprinting form, my face is all weirdly distorted – maybe it was from the sprinting, maybe it wasn’t.        

So, there I was a lot after midnight, sitting in front of my mirror dissecting my face.  Okay, really, my profile which I hate.  And to the person whom I just told that I was fine with it…well, I guess I’m not as well-adjusted as I thought I was.  I can wear a dress to work but putting my hair up in a clip is still a little too daring scary for me. 

All these thoughts are racing through my head keeping me awake when I should really be asleep because I have to get up in a few hours.

Clearly, I still have a few issues to work through.

And clearly, I need to stop eating Oreos at 10:45 at night. 

Off the Usual

Last week, we had Memorial Day off.  It was a four day week that seemed to stretch on forever.  Tuesday was Monday and Wednesday was Tuesday and by the time Friday rolled around, my time-card was completely off and who knew what day it really was.  All I knew was that I wanted that unusually long four day week to end.   

It didn’t help that I was feeling pretty off myself.   I felt uneasy, unsure, and unconfident about everything; okay, even more than is usual for me.  At home, at work…I second-guessed and criticized everything I did.  Then I obsessed about it even more. 

It was just one of those weeks. 

It was an off week.

Tomorrow starts a new week.  It’s back to the usual five days.  Monday will be Monday and Tuesday will be Tuesday and my time-card should stay straight. 

I’m back on and not feeling so off anymore. 

I’m back to the usual. 

When History Happens

When I was little I used to ask my mom when history would start happening.  She grew up during a time when lots of history was happening…the invention of television (or maybe that was just color television), Camelot, the race to space, assassinations, Woodstock, the Vietnam War, disco.    

I was born in 1979, the most boring year in history.  Oh, sure, there was the disaster at 3 Mile Island but other than that, nothing else exciting happened.  I was a baby when Ronald Reagan was shot; six when the Challenger exploded; in middle school when the first Gulf War began and ended; and in high school when the Branch Davidian compound in Waco was seized, OJ was acquitted, and the Alfred P. Murrah Building in Oklahoma City was bombed.  I wasn’t paying much attention to all that.  I had other things on my mind, like Barbies and Trapper Keepers and Friday night football games and Homecomings.  History was happening...I just didn't realize it.   

The first time I really felt like history was happening was when Princess Diana died.  I remember my mom saying to me, you’ll always remember where you were when you heard that she died.  And I do.  It was the night before I left for my first year of college and I was visiting the Whites’ house for one last visit.  It astounds me that 14 years ago, I watched Princess Diana’s funeral and three days ago, I watched her son’s wedding.  So much history has happened since that last day of August in 1997.

September 11, 2001.  When history happened that day, we all knew it, felt it, witnessed it.  Ten years passed and more history happened. 

Last night, another event that will go down in history happened.  It was a long time coming.  

Bravo to the brave men and women in our military and intel communities who continue to protect our freedom, protect our country, and protect us.  Even when history's "not" happening.