A Fortnight of Organic Sloth

I love work. In the years of semi- or unemployment that hounded me after my graduation, a close friend always told me that work is to the soul what food is to the body. In those dark days, food for the body was a more urgent priority. But as I settled into the gracious luxury of enough that comes with a steady income, I discovered just how nourishing work can be to the soul. Work is purpose, connection, service. Work is active prayer answered in results.

And so, after another year of pouring my soul into my job, and squeezing just a little harder to wring out every remaining drop into my studies, I am delighted to have worked so hard, and accomplished a thing or two along the way. But now it is time to go underground ground and germinate new energy and new ideas. A fortnight of organic, chaotic sloth has begun: a chance to do exactly as I please in a last-ditch bout of belated adolescence, overhaul my routine, habitat, wardrobe and the spidery empire below the kitchen sink at whatever ungodly hour is my wont; watches and the whip of obligation packed far away.

Just for fourteen days and fourteen nights. After that, a return to the saltmines will be welcome.


I love work. In the years of semi- or unemployment that hounded me after my graduation, a close friend always told me that work is to the soul what food is to the body. In those dark days, food for the body was a more urgent priority. But as I settled into the gracious luxury of enough that comes with a steady income, I discovered just how nourishing work can be to the soul. Work is purpose, connection, service. Work is active prayer answered in results.

And so, after another year of pouring my soul into my job, and squeezing just a little harder to wring out every remaining drop into my studies, I am delighted to have worked so hard, and accomplished a thing or two along the way. But now it is time to go underground ground and germinate new energy and new ideas. A fortnight of organic, chaotic sloth has begun: a chance to do exactly as I please in a last-ditch bout of belated adolescence, overhaul my routine, habitat, wardrobe and the spidery empire below the kitchen sink at whatever ungodly hour is my wont; watches and the whip of obligation packed far away.

Just for fourteen days and fourteen nights. After that, a return to the saltmines will be welcome.

Freedom

Freedom has been on my mind a lot lately. Although I am not in any literal prison, I have been acutely aware, recently, that I am not free. Of course, we are all free to different degrees. We have free will, whatever the circumstances. We have the freedom to determine our attitude. We have the freedom to make a multitude of choices with the hand we are dealt. But within those parameters, I am aware that, through the response I freely chose to the circumstances I did not, I have established myself in an environment where, no, I am not free. Although there are no legal constraints on my freedom of movement, it is astounding how strong social constraints can be. I step outside my flat and dozens of eyes on me. Much as I long and ache and burn to take a walk, every step is marred by hateful comments, car horns, sometimes stones thrown or spitting. I knew before I came here three years ago, that this is a conservative society and there would be sacrifices. So I dressed to defy the merciless desert weather, covered from neck to foot. It was not enough. Later I also began to wear a headscarf, dark glasses, anything to preserve some modicum of anonymity. But it doesn’t change things much. There are still knocks at the door at night, because I am a woman on my own, and everybody knows what that supposedly means. And whatever they think it means, here I am, alone. I now only leave home for work and urgent errands. Because I have freedom of choice, and I choose not to put myself in harm’s way. I freely choose not to provoke a situation that will let people act in a way that tempts me to hatred. And so, I freely choose captivity.

But everything is relative. During six and a half years of being held hostage, Ingrid Betancourt believed beyond belief that she would be released, long after the world had forgotten, or given up. In the spate of interviews she has given since her miraculous release last week, it is clear that she used her freedom to choose to continue to believe, for all those years. Finally, it was belief that won.

And then there is the insidious captivity of material things. Some are held captive by wealth: Affluenza is the term coined by UK psychologist Oliver James for the malaise of the middle classes and above. At the other end of the spectrum, much of the world is still marching along, meagerly fuelled by under a dollar a day. Escape from Luanda is a bold film documenting the lives of students at a music school in Angola’s capital, currently airing on BBCWorldNews. Rather than narration, the students tell their tales in subtitled Portuguese to the soundtrack of their heavenly music. The wistful melody of Africa has a mesmerizing rhythm, and therein lies the escape. Music, art, dreams transport us beyond poverty of the body and the soul, beyond the fragile human form, beyond captivity.

And therein lies freedom.

Graduation!

For those of us who can still barely make out our graduation on the distant horizon, this year's ceremonies might provide some inspiration. The videocast links can be found here. Be inspired!

Sound Reasoning (A letter to The Times of Oman)

A few weeks back I noticed advertisements for a courseq1 promising amazing results in English learning in just one month in The Times of Oman. Except for the liberal use of interactive DVDs, it had all the makings of the charismatic language learning methods of the 70s, right down to the balding visionary guru. Advertising is one thing, but today the company’s press release was placed as an article in the paper. (With a limited readership in its media infancy, this is common practice here. PR paradise, I tell you.) I could not let this pass unchallenged. Here is what I hope to be a balanced viewpoint, sent to the Times’ Readers’ Forum.

In response to the article New English Learning Course Promises to Improve Skills (Times, 5 July 2008), I would like to welcome “The Sound Way” programme to the English Education field in Oman. I also believe your readers should know the facts about the state of the art of language learning, which this programme claims to embody.

Like in many human sciences, the jury is still out on the mysterious process of language acquisition. Yet even the feuding experts agree on one fact: the One-Size-Fits-All Silver Bullet Method for language learning does not exist. Mastery of a language, like that of any skill, takes passion, persistence and personalisation. Mastery of the English language does not cost RO 165 over one month: it costs true, fiery commitment over a lifetime.

I am certain that “The Sound Way” can provide a solid grounding in English learning for keen learners and will benefit many clients. However, they should know that mastery does not derive from a cutting-edge method or a charismatic expert teacher, but from the ongoing, reflective process of language learners themselves. And that is not for sale.