cleaning out my closet

We have reached the door through which knowledge is created. No longer are we allowed to cite secondary sources. Yes, we can read them, especially in order to gain better understanding. But we must gather, not in order to regurgitate or review or even criticize; we must gather in order to supply our own framework of knowledge, which certainly is influenced by previous knowledge, but stands apart from it. We are no longer a branch on the larger tree, we are a seedling attempting to grow in order to produce our own fruit.

I wrote the above paragraph in the summer of 2006, as I was taking a class on qualitative research at Missouri State University. It was the first semester as Missouri State University, and the transition to a research institution was, from my experience, not a smooth one. Dr. Goodwin, who may be a wonderful human being, was (and I imagine still is) a terrible teacher. He left me ill-equipped to finish my master’s. And there is the most frustrating part. I really don’t care if I finish my master’s degree, because money really isn’t a big deal to me, nor is the recognition. The problem is I would like to finish it, emphasis on the would. I do care. But I am the type of student who must be taught. I can teach myself some things, but this I cannot. I am convinced I cannot be taught this because I cannot be taught to jump through hoops or fulfill requirements simply because they are established. I have never been very good with convention. So I will try, as I have twice before. And I may fail again. But I pray and hope and dream that I will complete it. I never see myself doing it, but I hope that I can.

Anyway, as for the paragraph, it encompasses much of what I have dreamed for ever since I started reading books that actually matter. Those who write books, books that actually matter and are worth reading, contribute to the collective knowledge of those who read it. This idea of collective knowledge, always growing and changing, through the thoughts and words of writers, is what I want to add to. I know I have thoughts and ideas that could be worthwhile additions to this collective knowledge, but getting them down on paper, in a logical and engaging manner, often eludes me. But in the summer of 2006, filled with grandiose ideas in a completely useless class, I penned that corny little paragraph above. I found it written on a manila folder in which I kept all of my assignments from that class; a folder found as I clean my apartment and ready my life for a move into my first home.

I find hope in the idea that I can someday add to collective knowledge. I’m scared out of mind when it comes to thinking of owning a house, caring for a house, and paying for a house. In my imagination, those who add to collective knowledge are not burdened by paying mortgages or fixing creaky garage doors or adding insulation to their attic. But, hey, what do I know?