Yesterday I watched a documentary on the effects of stress. I didn't realize how bad it was for you. It can cause chromosomes to break down faster, cause heart attacks, kill brain cells, and cause people to gain weight. If a woman is pregnant, her stress can affect her fetus. Not only that, but stress today affects health when people get older.

That scared me. I'm 23, and under stress constantly as a first-year teacher. I don't make enough money to suffer all that from one job. Luckily, I already have activities in place to help me to relax each day:

--knitting
--reading
--watching 30 min-1 hour of TV
--eating well
--keeping my apartment clean
--singing
--sleeping

Still, I am concerned about my health later on. American culture idolizes people who work constantly and who are involved in multiple communities. Our culture does not emphasize enjoying life or taking breaks, which contrasts with Europe. I really hope that more people realize the damage stress causes and move towards a European system. I think everyone deserves one month off each year and that everyone has health care. With more vacation time, we reduce our stress, which can keep us healthier in the long run. By having health care, we don't have to stress about being able to fix ourselves if we get sick. Keeping stress levels down also is a check on obesity, which causes many health problems as well. America values science so much and funds research, yet this country does nothing to change its culture to implement the results of that research. It's just like I tell my students: we need more follow through.

Now I'll go get some work done so I have time to relax tonight so my stress does not eventually kill me. :)

Well, after a long break, it's about time I continue with my blog....

I am currently in the process of teaching a unit on "Wishes and Nightmares" for my summer school students. While I was helping a student with her thesis statement, I got to thinking about phobias.

I reflected on the short stories "Poison" by Roald Dahl and "The Birds" by Daphne du Maurier. Both stories deal with phobias of common "nouns" in the world. Dahl's story is about a fear of poisonous snakes, whereas du Maurier's story is about a fear of birds that have suddenly decided to attack the whole of England. Here in the desert, snakes and birds are quite common. If people want to survive without having a heart attack each day, they really need to overcome their phobias. I will give you a personal example.

Before moving to Tucson, I lived in Northern California. When I was a child, I was terrified of spiders. Who am I kidding? I still am! I remember seeing a spider slightly larger than the tip of a pin. I screamed for my dad who took care of the creature for me. Once I was safe from the frightful beast, he calmly informed me that when we moved to Tucson, there would be more spiders and they would be larger. I had big eyes as a child, and I imagine that they bugged out a lot when he told me. I remember thinking that I wouldn't last. Little did I know what I would encounter. As a child in the desert, I talked my dog into killing spiders for me. He was territorial and thought of it as a game, especially since he got a treat afterwards. Once when I was staying with friends in central Arizona, there was a Daddy Long Legs spider in the shower. It didn't move, so I shut my mouth and took a very fast shower--with a spider in it. When I was in high school, I house-sat frequently. Two summers in a row I had to vacuum up a wolf spider, which are the most disgusting spiders I have ever seen. I still had to call my dad, who patiently stayed on the phone with me for one hour while I cried, until I finished the job. If my childhood self knew about the types of spiders she would encounter and how she would deal with them, she would have laughed in my face or she would have asked to live with her Grandmother and forsake the family instead.

Fear. It is a primitive emotion to guard us against animals, plants, and other dangerous objects so we can live another day. However, my fear of spiders had nothing to do with surviving. I simply thought they were ugly. There are a few poisonous spiders in the desert, but they really are no match against a vacuum cleaner or poison that you can spray at them. Reflecting on this, I realized that I should not be afraid of spiders because they cannot harm me. Yes, my dad has told me this many times, but it takes a while to truly understand messages at times. I also realized that, though I still greatly dislike spiders, I have a coping mechanism and I can somewhat coexist with them--as long as they're not in my house.

Logic tells me that I should not be afraid of spiders and my experience confirms it. Through the years, I have been able to deal with larger spiders in scarier situations and live to tell the tale. Although I would not invite a spider to dinner, I no longer believe that I have a phobia. Perhaps this was one of the messages that Dahl and du Maurier was trying to reveal: we are not actually afraid of common objects, but we are averse or dislike being around disturbing ones. However, modern phobias really have nothing to do with primitive fear.

With finals fast approaching, every college student I know has a rising stress level. My boyfriend is one of those students. In an effort to make his life a little less stressful, I decided to clean the apartment. I even got on my hands and knees and cleaned the kitchen floor and the tile in front of the front door.

Within the half-hour, ants decided to ruin my clean floor, the floor I had dreaded cleaning for a month. One would think that a clean entrance would deter the ants, but it actually enticed them to enter. It was, once again, a reminder to me that a clean house is a sign of a wasted life...and that a clean house doesn't stay clean for long.

So off we were to Ace to buy ant poison. This time, instead of traps, we got a spray and promptly sprayed the entryway. My boyfriend, who has a particular dislike of insects, watched as they writhed  in agony and died. My initial reaction was positive: I too dislike having creepy crawlies in my apartment. However, my thoughts quickly changed when I realized that ant lives had just been ended. What if they have souls? Are we murderers? That further led me to think that humans are like ants in the universe, so small that even our planet is not large enough to see from the periphery of the Milky Way. What if a being decided that we were worthless and exterminated us, or simply blew up our planet.

My philosophy about bugs have always been that if they are outside, they are free to exist and do what they want. I won't kill them or bug them. However, if they enter my apartment, my territory, I will kill them. Why? Because I can't ask them to leave. Otherwise I probably would ask.

Well, the deed is done and I would do the same again in the future, but I still question the morality of my actions.

"Dear St. Anthony, please come round, something's lost that must be found." How many times have believers and non-believers alike asked for St. Anthony's intercession? I have asked at least three times today alone. It seems like I am always misplacing something and I need someone to help me find it. Praying to St. Anthony has really made him dear to me. I no longer say "Dear St. Anthony" simply for the rhyme, but because he is one of the most prominent people in my life and I rely on him daily.

The realization that I ask a saint--who has been dead for centuries--for help instead of one of my living friends was startling. Why depend on a saint, especially since the majority of the world does not even believe in the power of the saints, when I live in an-overpopulated world? The correct assumption should be that there are billions of people to help me. What is going on?

We live in an extremely apathetic world. I ask a saint for help because I cannot rely on my friends to pull through for me. Ninety percent of the time, I call my friends, leave a message, and, if I'm lucky, 25% will call me or text me back. I can't even get my friends to come up with a good excuse for why they can't help me. And these are my friends, not my acquaintances. The only people I can rely on consistently are my boyfriend, my friend, Elizabeth, my parents, my grandmother, and St. Anthony. I talk to all of them every week. If I talk to anyone else, it usually isn't as often. Yes, I talk to a dead saint daily and he talks to God with me to help me out. And I have found everything I have ever lost--even years later when I had given up home.

Well, I am about to give up hope and I think St. Anthony and God may need years to help me with this one: "Dear St. Anthony, please come round, something's lost that must be found: a solution to apathy." I am getting close to being hopeless. Let me give you some examples. Everyday I have students that talk over me, even though I am giving them instructions so they can live successful lives. I tell them that they need to take responsibility for their school and to not litter and to pick up trash, even if it's not theirs. Today I found an obscene drawing in permanent marker on one of the desks. Finally, my mentor teacher, who has already had a rough year, had her house broken into today and everything valuable was taken. This morning it seemed that every time I turned around, I saw apathy and disrespect. How can I make the world a better place when all of this negativity overwhelms my best intentions?

Then I remembered that I am human. As such, I cannot do anything by myself. Humans--and animals--always need help to survive, to bring about change, to make the world a better place. I don't know how many of you read this, but if you do, whisper a prayer to St. Anthony and help us to make this world a more caring and welcoming place.

Dear St. Anthony...

Were my life a knotted ball of yarn,
Everything would make sense.
If I saw math like a knotted ball of yarn,
I would have the patience to work and work and work
At a problem for days;
I would know the steps to follow.

Were my life a knotted ball of yarn,
I would be patient.
I would unravel all of my days slowly
And happily
With measured understanding.

And once I reached the other end
I would die with the peace of accomplishment.

Oh to be the consciousness
Of a shluffed  off skin cell,
Burrowing in the ground
To be used centuries later.

To be that fallen strand of hair
That blew off with the wind--
Now part of of an animal's lair.

To be everywhere at once,
But only in one place.

I am star dust,
A bit of a star long dead
And I do not even know its name.
Is there a record of its place in the universe?
Does anyone know the effect of its gravity
        forming a solar system that too has vanished?

What happened to the consciousness of that star,
Of other beings--

How many bits of souls went into making me?