a bit about poop + field notes from the summer

Babes and bots, 

I wanted to talk about turds today, but not because I think you want to read about them. 

I've been concerned about giardia recently as I just spent a summer camping. For those of you who don't know, giardia is a tiny parasite that infects the feces of other animals. When we humans consume (usually accidentally) that infected animal's poop, we can contract giardia. Beavers are often carriers of this fun little bug and there are many of those in the Boundary Waters where I was working. So many, in fact, that I saw them daily! So whenever I drink water or touch sticks as I frequently do, you might find yourself thumbing the tiny poop particles with tiny parasites that carry big problems, like shitting your pants. Luckily, I haven't been doing any of that. 

When I'm in my happiest of places, my turds are excellent. It's no surprise that our gastrointestinal health and emotional well-being are involved with each other. For a while, I felt the benefits of my constant exercise and carb-loading had an excellent impact on my emotional well-being (and therefore my bowels). And then I got home...and it all went to shit. Not because home is bad, or because I am unhappy at home. No, I was incredibly happy to be home, cared for, and surrounded by loving people who did not complain about rain or lightning, or fight me about brushing their teeth. It just so happens that I was out of order, not in a solid routine, and eating different foods (meaning, more vegetables). And this was lovely! But my butthole still complained. More than twice, I was afraid I'd have a spill. But I'm lucky, privileged even, to have experienced some of the most minor symptoms associated with this gut-altering parasite without true consequence. 

In an attempt to find community with some fellow almost-shitters, I looked up "maybe it's giardia art," which Google corrected to "maybe it's giardia arthritis." In short, how exciting. As if peeing out of your anus wasn't satisfying enough, some people develop arthritis, too! The burning sensation accompanied by a flatulating poop emanates outward, to hips and knees, perhaps as far as the finger joints (which I've learned have three names I won't disclose because you, Reader, need to be smart like me and Google it). 

Imagine this: a sheepishly released fart becomes a shart with tiny bugs in it (my partner assures me they are called “macroinvertebrates”). And because you're in public, perhaps at a crowded restaurant, you must waft your poopy pants at nose height across the dining room to the bathroom. And you're trying oh so hard to hold in the next slushy wave while waiting in line, and because you smell like you sat in a cow pie, everyone assumes it's your shoes. They are being polite and ignoring you. And while your knees are glued together, tighter than your butt cheeks, you find yourself stressing the joints that hold you upright. Maybe this is a good thing, you might think to yourself. Maybe if I lay down, gravity might help the shit stay locked and loaded. Maybe I should do handstands.

field notes from the summer 

Anyone read Rebecca Solnit? She's written a Field Guide to Getting Lost, which I've discussed before. I don't have anything nearly as cool to report as she does BUT I can tell you about the Northwoods, and the Northwoods are, in my humble opinion, very cool. 

Here's what I have to say about the Northwoods: if you can go there, you must. I spent 50 days traveling around trees with 5 17-21-year-old boys and 1 male co-instructor. Let's just say that when I mentioned their comfort in peeing on land so close to me, the boys got defensive. Luckily, my co was awesome. The boys aren't really the point, though, because we saw a lynx and 50 gorgeous sunsets, old-growth white pines along America's worst trail (they said "how can we make this harder?"), the bones of a disheveled cabin in the woods, moose poop on moose poop (no moose, though). But when I wrote about the summer, I wrote about the boys. For example, 

"[student name] ran away today. Don't worry, we got him back." 

It's easy to get lost in the sauce. I feel that here in the MFA program, too. For me, last semester was categorized by incorrigible stress, a constant ache to meet needs I knew I had but couldn't balance. It's true that I let teaching take over my life and miss the days I was a substitute, days I had nothing to do after work but run and cook and read. Those were the days I spent sleeping. 

Something I tell my students: being an adult means making choices and living with the consequences of those decisions without complaint. You did this, I say to them, own it. 

I contend with my body. This is the hardest part. I choose sleep over activity more often than not and regret myself. I fail to schedule my time, leaving me with unresolved and unspoken scheduling conflicts. It's easy to say "No I'll sleep instead" when "Writing Time" is not explicitly stated in the daily calendar. To be honest, I've resisted organized approaches to breaking up the day simply because it is stressful for me to adhere to schedules (to control myself) when my surroundings phase in and out of predictability. But I've also failed at being present, at divvying up my time fairly, at feeling human. It occurs to me that maybe this failure is my problem. Perhaps I should change.

At any rate, thanks for taking a bite out of the sandwich with me. I'll leave you with this Stevie Wonder song recommendation: I Believe (When I Fall In Love It Will Be Forever). 

xoxo BLT