One of those moments

I've officially been in the UK for three weeks now. Time has flown in some ways, and not in others... mostly, I am feeling thankful to be here, although there are also days when I just feel lonely and discouraged. This place still feels like home, but at the moment I am unemployed and spending a lot of time on my own, which is a big contrast to my life in Toronto and I've had some difficulty adjusting to it. That said, I'm working hard to apply for jobs and write my dissertation, not to mention getting plenty of kitty-cuddles in with my cat-sitting charges, Oscar and Sebastian.

I've been working hard on my dissertation for the past two days, now that I'm once again finally feeling inspired to write (thank goodness) - although I am eating far too many chocolate biscuits in the process! I've just finished up the conclusion and major case study in the second article (of three that I am writing as part of my dissertation), and I have only the latter half of one section to finish before it is finally done. At the moment I'm trying to stop editing it so I can go to sleep, but my brain won't turn off... anyway, I just had a moment I wanted to share and hold on to.

As I was re-reading the conclusion, I suddenly realised just how very strong my voice sounds in this paper. I am writing about an incredibly controversial topic that may be received with hostility when I submit it for publication in a couple of weeks, and I find that totally terrifying. But, all the same, my writing voice sounds unshakeable and unwavering. I'm a little bit in awe of that. Of me and how I got here.

When I finished my Master's degree on Catholic pilgrimage and the Anthropology of Religion back in 2005, I realised that as much as I found it interesting, I wanted to do research that might actually make a difference in the world, to somebody, somewhere. Something that was more applied. From that point forward, in my applications for PhD programs and for grants, I started to pitch projects that were environmental anthropology-based, even though I had never studied anything like that in my life. Years later, my path has been incredibly circuitous, and not at all the way I imagined it would be, and I've actually ended up in Environmental Studies doing ridiculously interdisciplinary research on human-animal relationships - which, I might add, is rather awesome, even if some of the stuff I encountered in life along the way has been very difficult.

So, here I am: I am writing something that is important, and it might make a difference in how people think about animals, about females, and about the environment. To top this off, the first article of my dissertation was officially published last week, and I'm beyond thrilled; the journal editor told me it was 'really weird and wonderful', and he made it the lead in the article. (Yep, I'm still smiling about that. :D ) Plus, feedback on it from the friends who have read it has been excellent, and I'm really chuffed that my writing is as accessible to a lay audience as I hoped it would be. (If you want to take a look, you can find my article here.) But now there's the pressure: can I do it again? Is this topic too controversial? Is my argument - on a topic that is even more controversial than that of the first paper - strong enough to stand up to peer review from scholars who have probably never considered human-animal studies before? 

Earlier today I went to see a special exhibition at Tate Britain on the Pre-Raphaelites, which was both beautiful and inspirational. (I was especially in awe of Holman-Hunt and Hughes' stunning take on The Lady of Shalott, left, which I had never seen before.) I was struck by how young these artists were when they formed their brotherhood and declared they would use their art to further a social revolution against the materialism of the Victorian period and the industrialisation that accompanied it. They were essentially successful, and they did it through the type of brush strokes they used, the colours they chose, and the subjects of their work. That is incredible. Were they really special, though? What makes them any more likely to succeed than I am, if I approach this task with conviction, determination, and my gift for writing? Nothing, I guess. And therein lies the moment: I realised that I have a lot to be proud of and, I think, a lot to look forward to, even if I really have no idea what lies ahead. The past tells me that as long as I am committed to my goals, I will succeed - even if the next part of my journey is as winding, sometimes treacherous, sometimes incredible, and as detoured as the last few years have proven to be.