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This article of three parts deals with the paradox of being out of one’s
mind, while simultaneously being in “the present.” Taking its cue from
the title of this book, it asks about two kinds of being “out of one’s
mind.” The first kind refers to the kind of anxiety, fear, and despera-
tion that scholars, including students, teachers, and researchers, fre-
quently experience in relation to their work. It is the kind of being out
of one’s mind that makes one wonder if one’s work is good, robust, or
vigorous enough. If it is appreciated by one’s peers. If it will be pub-
lished. If it can garner funding. These are questions full of anxiety,
worry, and fear. When they are experienced as overwhelming, unbear-
able, or strong, they can truly drive one out of one’s mind.
I believe that these are questions that trouble more academics than
those people usually let on. They are also questions that relate directly
to the second kind of “out of one’s mind” that I want to explore here.
This is the kind of out of one’s mind that, paradoxically, leads one
back to one’s mind, to a state of wholesomeness and peace, instead of
leaving one stranded in states of anxiety and desperation. It is the kind
of being out of one’s mind in which one does not exist in the grip of
emotions but in a state of mindful-ness and awareness. I first experi-
enced inklings of this kind of being out of one’s mind in the summer
of 1992 when I lived with a reindeer-herding brigade in the northern
tundra of the Kamchatka Peninsula. In the beginning, I truly thought
I would go out of my mind. In the tundra, there were no longer any
points of reference or knowledge to which I could adhere. There was
a great deal of uncertainty and irritation. The boundaries between the
2. On Presence
petra rethmann
