Hope Writer Challenge - Reimagine

The last topic for the @hopewriters writing challenge is Reimagine (#hopewriterlife)

Ah yes, reimagine.  What can I say?  Of course I imagined 2020 differently.

We all did.  We all of us had a rhythm and a plan for our lives that didn't involve being stuck indoors and suddenly conducting our business and entire social calendar through a video chat.

I've watched people struggle putting desks together on their own in order to try to accommodate a home office.  I've heard people ask for prayers as they set up Google classrooms for kindergartners saying "God is my only tech support".  None of us imagined the world this way, or were prepared for it when it came.

So when I reimagine 2020, I naturally start by thinking about my original plans.  I think about the way I had mundane plans for doctor visits and a few weekend plans to see friends.  And I begin to question if my plans haven't changed for the better in some ways.

I'm more aware of and focused on my neighborhood. It's becoming a community again. And I have been able to help address some needs there I might not otherwise been aware of.

And as I think about how I want this year to progress, I've been thinking about what goals, writing or otherwise, I want to accomplish.  The conclusion I've reached is that I want to be more bold.  I need to stop prepping, stop organizing the supplies and just do it.  I am skilled enough.  I am ready.  Whatever isn't perfect I'll edit and work on once I've sat down and accomplished some things.

That is my goal, to put into action some bolder plans than I might not have imagined myself doing at the start of this year.  The world has paused for a moment and I've used that pause to reflect on what I really want to achieve.  To reflect on what I really want the future to look like for myself and our world.  I hope you can all step out into a bolder better 2020 as well.  The future is what we make of it, let's make it a good one, a bold one, a better one. 

Hope Writer Challenge - Reconnect

For the sixth day of @hopewriters writing challenge (#hopewriterlife) the prompt was Reconnect.

I Reconnect is an incredibly important theme this year. As we reimagine how our 2020 will look in the future or what it may have been in a different version of itself, reconnecting is at the core of it.

As we all entered lockdown, with very different flavors and inflections based on where we lived, we all had to reimagine connection.  In isolation connection is more important than ever.  But we had to reimagine it and how to reconnect.

I have personally found myself reconnecting with old friends that live far away.  I love them dearly, but the distance often keeps our lives rather separate.  Now that all communication and connection is digital it seems easier to reconnect with friends from out of state.  It's just as easy to get an out of town friend on zoom as it is to get your close neighbor on a zoom call.

With less outside activities demanding our time, there is less competition for our focus, and more time to schedule for friends.  Time zones seem to matter less when you're in all day.  And while I don't want or expect my friends to keep their schedules open indefinitely, it has been a lovely change to reconnect with good old friends at this time.

Some of our built up rhythm will carry with us into the rest of the year even as restrictions lift.  In part because we have reimagined how we connect with one another already.  My friends and I have started a quarantine book club.  When we go back to our outside activities we may not be able to zoom call each other all the time as we have been regularly.  But we will keep up our digital bookclub.

Sometimes all you need for reconnection is a start.  As we strive to reclaim a sense of normalcy we find ourselves not just imagining, but also reinventing the way we connect.  And I think that having put so much time into reconnecting we have enriched the days and months to come, whatever they may hold.

So, find ways to reconnect in a positive way.  Call someone you care about, tell someone how special they are to you.  Have a phone or zoom call with people you miss.  Enrich the rest of your 2020 with positive and meaningful reconnections. 

Mending a Heart of Glass

So what do you do with a life when your heart lies in shattered piles of glass on the ground?

You cry.

Broken things need to be cared for, grieved over.  You can't pretend the trauma didn't happen, you can't push it down and just carry on.  You have to take the sad, broken things out of the pile at the back of your closet and bring them tenderly into soft morning light and grieve over them.  You need to weep for your pain, for your broken dreams, for yourself.

It's now June, nine months after I wrote about the wreckage that was once my heart and how it was first broken into a million jagged pieces of shattered dreams. (In the post When a Glass Heart Shatters).  And I think it is no coincidence that nine months after this accident I'm ready to revisit this topic and give an answer.  Nine months, the amount of time it takes for a baby to be born with a new heart, or, as I see it, the amount of time it takes for a broken heart to be reborn new.

But a new heart is not reborn without work.  At first you cannot even begin this work.  You must live from one moment to the next.  Trying to do otherwise is overwhelming.  In my other post I spoke about instinctively knowing that forwards and backwards were not options.  After a shattering the past is too painful.  There is no going back.  After a shattering the person you were and the life you had are broken and will never be the same again.  Thinking about the past only reminds you of how painful and broken you are in comparison to the whole person you used to be and your reality cuts you all the deeper.  The future is also too terrifying to contemplate; filled with unknowns and consequences that you know must arise from your shattering, but you do not have the courage to think about at first.  Instinctively you know that you can only change directions, but with the sudden way that all your old plans shattered, all new things feel unsafe.

So until you are strong enough to face anything else, you live only in the now.  Only living in this exact moment.  That is how you survive until you are strong enough to face new things and the implications of the shattering you lived through.  And you must keep crying.  You must grieve for all your pains, all your losses.  You must grieve in many different ways and you must allow yourself to feel as hurt as you are, pushing it down and pretending you are not hurt will not aid in your healing. 

Then slowly with determination not to allow yourself to die in a heap in the gutter you pick yourself up.  You stagger, you trudge one foot at time away.  Anywhere.  Just away from the wreckage.  Maybe you go right, maybe you double back to the wreckage and go left.  Maybe you fall a few feet away and cry.  But every time you slowly pick yourself up and trudge one step further.  You cling to family and friends for support.  The ones that stick by you are the ones you cherish as true friends.  Throughout this process of healing you will need them all the more.

And slowly in your stumbling steps you live in the moment and find that you notice things around you.  It may be a funny shaped crack in the pavement, or a brightly coloured leaf that has caught your eye.  You may notice a broken sign or a beautifully exuberant dog.  Noticing the broken things will touch on your pain and gently, ever so gently you will start to think about those wounds and heal.  Noticing the bright, beautiful and living things will slowly remind you of the beauty that can still be found in your world and you will gently begin to heal.  Always in noticing and gentle reflection there is healing.

One day, after who knows how many months of grieving and living in the moment, your staggering steps will find a hint of a path.  Just the beginning of one.  You allow the love of family and friends to sustain you and you let them gently guide you towards a straighter path, pushing you gently towards something that almost looks like progress.  It doesn't always look brave and big.  Progress can be as small as admitting that your past is staying in the past.  Progress can be admitting that you need to continue to stagger away from the wreck.  Progress could be finding a flower growing from a crack in the sidewalk and letting yourself believe that there can be hope in a sea of despair.  Or perhaps you just admit that you are still looking for answers, a way forward and you don't have them yet.

Looking eventually leads towards finding.

In September I decided I would curl up by the wreckage and wait for answers.  That was as brave as my looking was capable of being at that time.  I was waiting for God, for direction, for an answer for a start and a path.  My path had shattered.  I felt alone.  But out of a stubborn determination not to let my brokenness consume me I got up and moved one step.  Determination, and the love of family, and friends (and a few animals), kept me putting one foot in front of the other.

I admitted that my past was broken, that I was different.  I found that I could still find a sad beauty in the world and I left the glass shards of my heart in the back corner of my mind until I was strong enough to deal with them.

Don't get me wrong, I didn't wake up one day and find myself strong enough to do it.  I needed prodding and coaxing to even start.  The friends who care about me have pushed me closer to the pile of shards.  And some days I did a bit of clean up.  Some days I honestly sat on the curb by the glass shards and sobbed, grieving the injuries and the events that led me to this state.  Grieving for the wounds and the losses I've sustained.  Slowly there were days where I was finally able to make halting progress of consolidation and tidying.  I was starting to work on myself.  I went to therapy, saw a doctor, started caring for myself, for my physical, mental and emotional well-being.

And I personally think that God must have been listening to my silent cry in September because I think he sent me the people I needed in my life in order for me survive it.  He sent the right friends to be there for me.  He sent steadfast friends who knew the depths of my pain.  He sent me people to support me, cry with me, lift me up and love me.

Lastly, he sent me an artist.  I didn't know I needed one until he arrived.  God sent me an artist who saw all the broken pieces of my heart lying hopeless in the gutter and still found beauty in them.  And so I sat beside my heap of jagged, broken pieces of heart and I decided to grieve the injuries done to them and finally start to straighten up the mess.

When my artist would see a new wound I would see a sadness in his face that finally allowed me to feel as though I could openly grieve the deepest cuts.  I couldn't always see the beauty in my brokenness that he saw, but I was tired of avoiding the scene of the gutter and leaving that mess hanging around to loom over me and shadow my days.  So, slowly, ever so slowly, I picked up small pieces of jagged glass flung far out into the street and I grieved over them and put them in the main pile, consolidating.  One piece of glass at a time I tried to straighten up the carnage of my broken heart and dreams.

Cleaning up such an accident is more of a journey than a task.  It involves grief, and pain and it's a long painstaking process.  And when a heart has broken in such a dramatic fashion your body builds knots of emotional walls around it to try to prevent the damage from spreading.  So, you have to spend time carefully unraveling the knots of distrust, broken promises and other hastily constructed emotional walls in order to even come close enough to start cleaning up the scene of the accident.  This process is painful, but it is necessary for healing.

Some days you make real progress, you find a way to take three steps forward; you deliberately pull down small portions of the walls you worked so hard to build.  But there are also days where the emotional pain is too much and you kick pieces of your heart further into the gutter in frustration, despair and black misery.

But sitting beside me, bending down to reach into the gutter, not shying away from the dirt, jagged edges and misery is the artist that was sent to me.   Every time I fell he picked me up.  He grieved with me.  He took the broken pieces of my heart that I kicked into a corner.  He gathered them up gently and he told me that light shines through the cracks where the heart has been broken before.

He helped me go searching for words I could speak to my fear.  We embarked on a journey together; going through the Artist's Way which has taught me enough to be the subject of many future posts.  For now, however, it is worth mentioning that it is teaching me to practice gentle self-care and to speak back against the dark, doubting thoughts of fear in my mind.

My artist helped me find my words for safety by always being a safe place for my emotions to rest and by searching with me for the right words to fight back against the darkness.  I found them in an unexpected place.  Alongside my Artist, I had the privilege of hearing a Mayan Tribal Elder speak at a Cocoa Ceremony where she spoke about the tribulations of her people.  She said "We do not admit that we were conquered.  We were invaded, yes, but not conquered.  They may have tried to kill us.  They buried us.  But they didn't know they were planting seeds."  The moment I heard these words I began to cry.  These were the words I had been searching for to bring the piece of hope I couldn't find on my own.

How does one live in a world where bad things happen, where you know they can happen at any time to you, and still feel safe?  Here is where I find safety.  That whatever bad things may come, whether or not they kill me, they will only be planting seeds.  I may not be the same after.  But I will grow back, I will be stronger.  I am unstoppable.  And in this lies my safety.

On this journey, my Artist helped me notice the beautiful things.  As time went on he kept showing me the beautiful things in life, in the little moments as well as the big ones.  Every time I saw beauty in the world I would discover a small piece of my heart that wasn't completely broken.  The mess in the gutter was less daunting.  And slowly, he helped me gather all the pieces together with love.  He melted the broken pieces of my heart back together and he added new material, new glass, and my heart is now encased in this protective case of new glass that has no memory of fragility and is therefore stronger than ever.  And the cracks in the old pieces of my heart shine with the tenderness of empathy that brokenness pours into a heart.

I am old and new.  No, you cannot undo the brokenness, but you can decide what happens next.  I have found a seed at the bottom of the shattered heap and with the heat from a forge I have brought forth a tiny plant, my heart a Phoenix rising from the wreckage.  And my new heart, born with work and patience was given so much love by friends and family that I can never adequately express my gratitude to those who gave it.

Stars in the Darkness

The stars had fallen, but some of them so slowly that nobody realized they were falling until it was too dark to see anymore.  The dark, gem-black of the sky had once been pierced by the bright lights of stars.  Or so the passerby who saw it years ago have told me.  Lately the sky felt dark and stormy.  The few stars left were so lonely they almost felt out of place.  I had been staring into the blackness so long that the missing stars didn't strike me as unusual.

Photo via Flickr by Kristin Jona 

So many years ago that it felt like a dream, I had watched the first star fall and mourned it's precipitous descent.  I held it in my hands, cradling that dying dream.  And then I laid it to rest beneath the protective limbs of a tree; on a hill where it could still see the sky.  I didn't want it to feel as alone as I felt.

As I lived through some dark times the stars kept falling.  I stopped noticing their fall.  It somehow felt natural now that the light would slowly be extinguished and the dreams would fade.  The blackness felt inevitable.  The time when the sky was full of stars and the world still had a hopeful light was so far away it felt like I'd imagined it in dreams of a better time that never was.  A time that could never be again.

Photo via Flickr by Stephen Rahn 

How long have I occupied this lonely hill with my fallen dreams alone?  Who can say?  I sit here in the dark, keeping my sorrowful, personal vigil.  I no longer mourn the stars sprinkled around my feet.  I thought it was only a matter of time til they fell.  I was so wrapped up in the emotion of the darkness that I didn't stop to ask why they were falling; all I knew was that I couldn't stop it.  My despair was as large as the sky, crushing and endless.

Then, suddenly, the night was different.  I realized in a moment that I wasn't as alone as I thought.  The warmth of friendship can be as shocking and illuminating as summer lightning.  A figure in the darkness, a friend, stopped and sat with me to share my dark inner vigil.  I was not surprised by their presence but I hadn't expected them to stop and sit with me in the dark.

Without so much as a word they glanced at the sky and then down at the piles of fallen stars.  I felt their sadness at the state of my night sky.  Seeing it through their eyes I could now see how empty and dark the sky felt with its bright dreams lacking.  I had no words to offer back to them about the state of things.  I had only silence and pain to offer.

Photo via Flickr by Martin Fisch

My silence didn't scare them.  We sat in quiet stillness surveying the darkness for some time.  Then gently they started collecting up my fallen stars, gathering up my darkened dreams, stacking my broken hopes up tenderly.  I asked what they were doing.  "We are going to put your dreams back up in the sky where they belong" they said.
"But, they are dark, they have lost their fire" I said.
"So, we will light them again."
"How will we do that?" I asked with a doubtful hope beginning to flicker in my chest.
"With love" they said and they reached out.
I held out an upturned hand to them.  Gently, into my palm, they placed a single dark star.

I looked down at one lonely broken dream and it felt heavier and heavier in my hand.  I cradled it with  both hands crying.  Gently they added their hands to mine to help still their shaking.  When I finished mourning the brokenness of my dream they closed my fingers around the star and added their hands around mine.  With four hands supporting my dream they said with the firmest gentleness "With love" and together with hearts open we re-lit my dream.

Original photo via Flickr by Leland Francisco

Tears now sparkled with light as they helped me release my rekindled dream into the sky.  It floated higher and higher until it joined it's few remaining star brethren and made them just a little bit brighter again.  And with the joy that followed, the love, friendship and hope flowed out of my heart and re-lit all the stars at my feet.

Photo via Flickr by Nic Redhead

As suddenly as my first star had fallen I was relighting my dreams and we were throwing them back up into the sky.  Lanterns lit with love and hope they floated upwards.  Being surrounded by brightly lit dreams is beautiful and magical.

Photo via Flickr by Jirka Matousek

With stars streaming upwards around us, I looked at my friend.  They smiled, "You deserve it," they said.

I smiled, my heart as bright as the stars.

We painted the night with dreams and light.

Photo via Flickr by Judy Schmidt

**********************************************************************

Photo via Flickr by NASA Goddard Space Flight Center

With love to all the friends who have helped me stumble through the darkness and have with the gentlest most insistent love helped me rekindle my dreams.

Words rarely express the depths of emotion we want them to.  This is my attempt to express some of my gratefulness to those who have walked beside me through the dark.

I wouldn't be here without you.  You have helped light my darkness.

I hope that I can be even a small source of light for you in return.



My dreams are as vast as the sky, bright and limitless.

Photo via Flickr by Alessandro Caproni

There is No Dog Shame in this House...

they don't know the meaning of that word.

If I was a dragon this would be the pile of discarded bones of my enemies.  Because I'm a dog it's a stick graveyard and also holds the remains of my enemies.  That shark toy, he had it coming.

Oh hi, Happy Thanksgiving!  While you were busy doing other things that garden gnome you brought home from Grandma's house gave me a weird look.

I regret nothing.  I also have no shame.  

I always thought he looked shifty.  So I bited his feets off.  Now he can't get up to any mischief when I'm sleeping and can't protect you.

Also, he was attached to a strange little stick... and I know all sticks for me to eat... so I ate that too.  I know I have an entire pile of sticks in front of the deck that I'm turning into a woodchip pile, but that gnome smelled funny on top of being shifty so I really thought he was a priority for destruction.

You're welcome!

I know you appreciate my work so I just wag my tail when you tell me I'm bad.

Let me think... BAD.  B... A... D... That must be code.  Yeah, code, for brilliant adversary destroyer.  Oh yeah, I'm definitely that.

I'm so good at it.  I'm the best!

I protected my human, ate a stick, and made sure that shifty little gnome will never threaten anyone again.

I'm so happy!

It's already such a great day.  Wake me up when it's time for our walk.

                        Love,

                           Rocky

Don't mind me, I'm just an Old Shoe...

Do you ever look around the world and wonder what's wrong with it until you reach the conclusion that it's you?  I'm an introvert which is really just a fancy way of saying I'm a bit shy and I enjoy people watching more than actually living.  And recently, with all my down time and my people watching, I've come to a sort of small epiphany.  People are as varied as the shoes they wear.  There are the loud ones and the sleek ones and the sporty ones.  Shoes and people can be functional and flirty, colourful and dark, captivating and invisible.

I've come to the conclusion that I am the comfortable shoe.  What is wrong with my life is me.  People fall quickly into a routine with me because I'm comfortable.  I can go long or short distances, I'm easy to please, sort of versatile.  I'm ok with adventure but I'm not the hardcore hiking boot or the tough as nails steel-toed boot.  I can go out dancing but I don't ooze charm or sophistication or sexiness.  I don't chafe, or annoy.  I'm just easy.  People wear me every day for awhile and then suddenly they trade me in for a pair of fancy, new, shiny, unworn shoes.  Maybe they go sportier or more professional.  Sometimes they choose flirty and totally sexy.  It's hard to say which direction they'll go after they've thrown me in the corner.  All I know is that they have no trouble leaving me behind.  I'm the comfortable shoe.  I'm meant to be put on every day til they tire of me.  Worn through the tight places, muddy places, dark places.  Used til I'm falling apart at the seams.  Then, just as is my purpose, I'm put in a corner or a dark cupboard and never thought of again.

Well, that is until I'm needed all of a sudden.  Then just like that I'm expected to be as accommodating and comfortable and flexible as ever.  After months of being ignored and left alone in a corner I'm suddenly brought back out and supposed to be happy with being put on every morning when they need a quick pick me up run, worn through all the tight and sad places, and used up til I'm emotionally tearing apart at the seams.  I'm supposed to be content with this because I'm the comfortable shoe that everyone loves having around because I'm so easy and so comforting.  All the while knowing that maybe tomorrow, maybe in a month, they will bore of me again and I'll go back to being forgotten in the dark.

Ah, the good old comfortable shoe.  Perfect for a day of mixed activities; easy to kick off when you feel like something else.

I'm just one of those people.  I'm willing to listen and reminisce.  You can drag me out of the cupboard and I'm still me; worn-in just the way you remember and find so comforting.  And the funny thing is that while I hate being a comfortable shoe I don't hate who I am.

I think being there for people is generally a nice thing to do and I wish more people were a bit more on the comfortable shoe side of the scale.  It seems like most of my friends are specialized shoes.  I know hiking boots and business shoes and dancing shoes and sexy shoes.  I don't have a problem with any of them.  I love them for who they are.  But sometimes I wish I knew a few more comfortable shoes who could be there when I need to go through tight, dark places and get a little wet and muddy.  We could go on adventures, sit at home, and yes, even hang out together in the corner when our other friends are busy doing their thing.

But my professional shoe friends are always in business meetings.  My dancing shoe friends can't be bothered if the situation doesn't call for music.  Sexy shoes are too busy flirting with everyone to notice I'm around unless they need a comfortable shoe friend.  Hiking boot friends have no trouble with a little mud but they're nearly always out scaling some new mountain and having a marvelous time doing it whether you are there or not.

Maybe I should form a society for people like me, comfortable shoe types.  Maybe we could get together and be supportive of one another since it's clear that sexy shoes are never going to slog through the mud by our side no matter how many times we are there for them and business shoes, are, well, too busy.  We could call it SCRAPES (Society for Comfortable Reliable And Perfectly Eclipsed Shoes) and underneath that last word we can write in tiny letters "Or people, you know, whatever..."

Unemployment brings out my hermit side

Being under-employed makes me even more antisocial than normal.  I know, that's hard to imagine considering I'm not the touchy feely type and I've already admitted to being a misanthrope.  But really, I'm not Oscar the Grouch, I promise.

It's just that sometimes I just really don't want to talk to people.  Especially when I just don't feel like having any conversation that remotely deals with my life.  It's impossible to have meaningless conversations that don't even tangentially come into contact with some facts about your life.  For instance, any conversation with someone you have just met or hardly know inevitably ends up here:

"So... what do YOU do?"

Stop me if I'm wrong... Do your conversations with new people always end up here eventually or not?  Yep, that's what I thought.  So, this is how mine typically end...

"Oh you mean me?" I ask hoping desperately the answer is no.  Stalling for time with this last desperate question.

"Yes, I feel like I've been talking too much about me.  So, what do you do?" persistently and annoyingly curious person.

Damn.  Did it occur to you that perhaps I would prefer to talk about anything other than myself?  No, of course it didn't.  And now you've asked me the worst question possible.  The one that leads to all the others.  If only it was polite to stomp off every so often without a word.  Sigh...

"Well, at the moment I'm volunteering at a museum and looking for work." I finish quickly drinking something so I don't have to see that look in their eyes.

The worst part of being unemployed isn't the financial trouble, though that is worrying, or the job hunting stress, though that can be exhausting, or the self doubt you wake up to every morning, though that is depressing.  No.  The worst part of being unemployed is talking to everyone else about it.

Don't get me wrong, I do not enjoy being penniless and living like a pauper in one of the world's most expensive cities.  Thank you London.  But the worst thing about it is you have to admit to people that you are either under-employed or unemployed and now all your private doubts and worries are suddenly the subject of public debate.  Oh, what are you looking for?  Are you qualified for those positions?  How long have you been unemployed?  etc.

All your flaws are suddenly layed out for everyone to see and talk about and laugh at.  Aired like so much dirty laundry.  For some reason everyone believes they have a right to delve into your personal life here.  If you had a job the conversation would go, "I do this, I love it," they would get bored and then move onto another less personal topic.  But if you don't have one you must have failed somewhere and they believe they are allowed to poke around in this fascinating subject that is your life til they find out why.  Stomping around on your feelings and raising up your doubts in the process.  

The only reason to be unemployed, of course, is that you failed.  Not that the economy is terrible or that you made choices better for your health that possibly made your career path more difficult.  Nope, there is not other explanation.  If you do not have a job currently you must be at fault somehow.  You failed at your previous job or you are somehow responsible for failing in the job search process.  You aren't applying to enough jobs, or the right ones, or you aren't writing the cover letter in the right way.

Being unemployed AND being forced to talk about it,
leaves me feeling a bit vulnerable.

Never mind that you already wake up doubting yourself and your abilities during this time.  Never mind that many vacancies are filled internally and you didn't have a chance to start with.  Never mind that it's physically impossible to send out more job apps on some days (because you woke up and applied all day til you went to sleep).  Clearly, it is somehow, in some way... all... your... fault.  And worst of all they feel like they need to tell you so.  These irritating people feel the need to point out all the places you could possibly have failed.  Just in case you didn't know all the ways you might be failing.

Please pick me.  Please?  I am trying really.

Let me be clear.  Friends offering suggestions is not the same thing.  You can suggest different jobs to apply to or maybe even help edit a cover letter without being this sort of obnoxious intruder.  These are the sorts of questions and judgements you have to endure from people you have never met before or barely know.  Their judgements are least welcome and interestingly enough the most forthcoming.

Maybe I should start answering this question with increasing doses of sass.  Oh me?  Yes, I do lots of things.  I do laundry, I read, I paint (but only in the afternoon when the light is right), I travel, I talk to friends across the world.  Sometimes I skype with my parents or spend time volunteering at the museum.

Maybe I should leave it at that and let them imply that I'm unemployed.  Maybe I should make them ask me what I do.

"Haha, laundry.  NO, I meant what is your job?"

"Oh, so you want to know about my personal finances?  Well I do declare, the impertinance of some people..." and I will storm out with high heels and my perfectly polished pearls reassuring me that I am a lady of.... wait, I don't own pearls.  Ok, maybe I shouldn't opt for this one.

Maybe I should go a step further with the cheeky reply and invent my own job.

To do that I need to set straight some definitions.  I think it is reasonable to define profession thusly.

Profession: the use of skills and abilities particular to the individual in the pursuit of financial stability

And if we define profession in this way then I can confidently say that I am a professional applier.  I apply and apply and apply to jobs of every description, salary and location in the pursuit of financial stability.  Now, I am not successful at achieving stability in this profession, but success is not part of my definition.  It is all about the doing.  And so am I.

Maybe my new strategy for this question should be more cunning.  Perhaps when I have been trapped in this corner of the conversational ring and I am no longer able to dance my way out I will open with this little number.

"What do I do?  Do you want the grim, sarcastic or fictional answer to that question?"

People, I am assured by many studies (on choice and on the anchoring effect which suggest people pick the middle option), when presented with three choices, two similar options, one of which is slightly more appealing, will typically choose that and ignore the third unrelated option.  So, if I give them a choice of truth that is grim, truth that is sarcastic, or fiction, I am guessing they will opt for sarcastic, as the more appealing of similar choices and the middle option.  And I'll pull out my "my life is fabulous I'm a professional applier" routine, which I will no doubt have perfected in no time.

Then again, they could surprise us all and persist in being nosy and annoying and demand the sordid details of my floundering career.  If this is true, I shall not hold back and maybe, just maybe I'll make them sorry for asking.  Next time take a hint, if I do not want to speak about myself just continue talking about you.

People and their questions.  Pah.  Mutter mumble mutter mutter.

Maybe I should just avoid talking to people for awhile.  At least until I'm less grouchy, or maybe until I've sorted out some things in my life, for example, finally found a job.  Then again, I'm in a bad mood and I'm thinking that my old plan of becoming a hermit permanently is sounding like a better and better idea.  People.  I don't really like people.

So, please excuse me while I go be antisocial and grouchy for awhile.  Don't worry, it's probably just the weather and I'll be cheery again tomorrow.  I hope...  Disastrous rainy country!  Grey and miserable...

Mutter mutter mutter....

On a scale of 1 to 10 I'm an Um...

True insanity cannot be measured.  On the light side of things a one is mild insanity.  Then there is intense insanity.  And then there is, well, me, at whatever strange alternate level of insanity it is that I seem to exist in.  I am more of the "Um... okaaaay" type of insanity and I've had another one of those days.

You know how some days you are just too tired to care?  You stayed up late you woke up early?  Your reaction to sunshine and the alarm was not the typical sleepy groan but more of the melodramatic face-plant into the pillow?  Do you know what I'm talking about?  Well, I had one of those days today.  I was not tired enough to be grumpy, just tired enough to make absolutely no sense.

Photo Source: Pinterest

At work I was meant to be updating my client's social media profiles.  I barely know how to update my own.  What makes you think I'm qualified to update a financial client's profiles?  I had to research how to effectively use hashtags on twitter for businesses.  Yes, I do actually have a twitter account but I'm not really sure what to do with it.  I certainly don't know how it's used for business.  And Delicious.  What is the point of that site?  Is it really a directory of links or is it really like twitter?  Do people actually look at your Delicious account or is it more meant as a list for you?  Why is it called Delicious?  There is nothing tasty about it.  I just don't understand. I know nothing about technology and social media.  I really am the world's worst online marketing employee. 

A day of staring at the screen trying to decide if articles were interesting enough to catch attention, but not so interesting as to offend my financial client, sent me further into my strange mood.  Suddenly I was staring at the weirdest abbreviations and I couldn't keep my mind from wandering.  I muttered "SM?" to my computer.  My colleague looked up with a cocked eyebrow and asked "did you say S&M?"  Social media does not abbreviate well it would seem.  We were both tired and this was much funnier than it should have been.  We decided that after a day of work I would clearly be an expert in S&M and loans for my finance client.

Not long after lunch our big boss arrived with two teenage girls and starting filming the boot of his car in the parking lot below.  Well, at least that was what we heard.  There was apparently too much fast driving and some sort of flipping involved as well.  We came up with kidnapping theories and somewhere along the line nearly invented an office rumour that he had two families and was trying to keep them from knowing about each other and this somehow involved a blackmail video filmed from the office of a car boot.  We are still working on it.  We may or may not send round an email on Monday asking the burning question of what on earth they were actually doing.

As the day progressed work got more boring. When you start to read the phrase "pitch craft ideas to x person" as witch craft, and you giggle to yourself, you know you are reaching that stage of tired where everything is funny.  Next writing emails that proposed an article about loans, I asked the blogger if they would be interested in it and even this caused me to giggle inanely to myself.  Interested.  Loans.  Interest.  Hehehe.  Clearly I had not slept enough, I had been at work too long and I had really, truly, gone over the edge.  I was past the point of no return.  Returns... hahahaha.

I'm bored.  Are we done yet?  Photo Source: Flickr by Holster

We decided to count the seconds, not minutes until we were done with work.  This led to the realization that seconds seem so much shorter than minutes and even a great number of them somehow feels short.  But we went further, by the time we arrived in town on the bus at about 6pm there were roughly 2,009,000 seconds left until Christmas. 

We stopped in at Primark, a work friend and I, and found the clothes to be quite exotic.  We found zebra stripes in one row.  And then rounded a corner to find the rest of the zoo.  Every variety of great cat imaginable was there as well as owls, ducks, and dragonflies.  Dragonflies are there to support the ecosystem not necessarily as an attraction, but anyhooo.  We had fun trying on and making fun of everything we could get our hands on.  It's more fun this way.

Eventually we left for food at McDonald's and met some very interesting and slightly overly friendly guys.  They wanted to know how old we thought they were.  It became a big game.  They tried to guess our age and my friend tried to convince them she was 29 with two children.  They didn't believe her and were triumphant when she revealed that she is only 24.  Though they had a hard time believing that I was 26.  They also didn't believe that we worked at a marketing company.  True it has a funny name, but they suggested that we looked like we worked at Nando's instead.  I'm not sure that wasn't an insult.  Ah well.  It was funny to mess with them.

Eeyore wonders why and how it always snows only on him. Photo Source: Flickr by Nikoretro

On our way out and to the train station we started to see snow flakes.  Really large ones, all of a sudden and not in a flurry, just randomly.  It was suspicious.  Turns out it was only snowing on one street of the whole town.  I'm guessing it was a snow making machine and possible marketing ploy?  I don't know but it was odd and we weren't the only two who noticed.  Needless to say it was a strange day.  It was almost surreally funny and strange.  I mean, who has ever heard of it only snowing on one street?  Yeah, I'm going to have to investigate this tomorrow.

For now I'm going to sit indoors all snuggly with some hot chocolate and attempt to return to a state of semi normalcy, you know, mild insanity, and maybe even warm, cozy sleepiness. 

Calm me down...

Things I hate

Do you ever have days where you simply get tired of being told what to do?  Where a part of you simply snaps?  Where you feel like enduring this treatment for even one more second will cause your blood to literally boil your heart to pound out of your chest and your teeth to grind each other into dust because you've been clenching them that hard? 

Have you ever felt that way?  Have you ever had to pretend you didn't want to leap from your chair and shove your notebook down someones throat screaming with rage and instead put on a smile? 

Today I had to sit through a meeting pretending I wasn't angry while I was first told all the things I could and couldn't do and then personally attacked for having a different personality and a different way of working.  Never mind that my way works for me and my work gets done and my executives and clients are happy with it.  My way doesn't align with the almighty freaking procedure by which everyone must live and die.

I had to clench my teeth not to say anything upsetting.  Oh, so you think I'll learn to like this thing antithetical to my personality and that I'll magically start thinking the way you do and that your precious organizational system will make sense to me?  Don't touch my systems.  Don't tell me how I must work.  You don't think I've tried overcoming some of my personality quirks?  I'm twenty five and I know what I can and cannot cope with to be productive.  If I wanted to spend my day doing the things you are proposing I would have signed up for a different job.  I was hired to be creative, to think differently and to come up with ideas and content they couldn't imagine.  Don't sit there and tell me what I'm capable of or what I will like.  You have no idea who I am.  When my work starts having problems then you can talk to me.  Until then go fix things that are actually broken and leave me and my working system alone.

Things I love

So now to combat all those negative thoughts I need to think of reasons to be thankful.  Number one, family.  I have an incredible family.  They love me and support me and are there for me always.
2.  I have amazing friends.  Granted they are spread all around the world, but nonetheless.  Come to think of it I am very blessed to have people I love that also love me.

My friends do silly things like take pub quizzes and bet on how few we can get right.

3.  Food.  I can afford it and I am not starving.  I got some amazing donuts and milk reduced at M&S tonight.

Another great M&S reduced food.  Mmm!

4.  For that matter I should be thankful that my shift allows me to snap up all the reduced foods.  It is cheaper to shop at night this way.
5.  I am thankful that I have a job that pays my bills and therefore I am not homeless.
6.  I'm not homeless.  It's much too cold in this climate to be homeless.
7.  I'm alive.  And I can appreciate the joy and pain of life and all it's beauties.
8.  The world is actually full of beauty.
9.  The world is full of purple.

10.  I live in a city, that although I wouldn't call it historic, is really historic.

Random doorway in Leeds

11.  My city actually has some pretty views along the canal

Leeds Canal

Leeds Canal

12.  I have good health
13.  The world is full of music.
14.    I can sing any time I want.
15.  I have the chance to do a bit of traveling here and there.  Including to London to visit some of my amazing friends.

And yes, I sang the Portobello Road song from Bedknobs and Broomsticks while I walked along this street.

Street painter at Notting Hill festival in London

16.  I have time to paint and draw and read for fun
17.  Books.  I am utterly thankful for books.
18.  I am thankful for my kindergarten teachers who valiantly struggled with a stubborn five year old who was convinced she'd never learn how to read and somehow not only taught her how to read but also helped her find a joy in it.  (Though a joy of reading must mostly come from my father, an absolutely voracious reader.)
19.  I am thankful for rainy days reading under snuggly covers.
20.  I am thankful for the written word in general as it allows us to communicate beautiful sentiments, talk to family and friends, express our deepest emotions, and do so with an eloquence denied other forms of communication.
21.  I am thankful for my brain, even if it causes me a few sleepless nights here and there.
22.  I am thankful for flowers and green things generally
23.  I am thankful for umbrellas that keep me dry on my way to work and back
24.  I am thankful for rainboots that allow me to jump in puddles and stay dry.
25.  I am thankful for chocolate.

Really there are a lot of things to be thankful for.  I just need to think about those things and not get all annoyed by trivial things at work.

The Scarlet Women

It is about time I tell the story of the Scarlet Women.  Let me begin by saying that I have been blessed with some incredible friendships.  My best friend Bethany is my dearest and oldest friend.  I cannot even remember a time I did not know her.  And despite the fact that we haven't lived in the same state since we were 11 and now do not even live on the same continent we still keep in touch through, email, skype and pinterest, of course.  Although I was blessed with this strong friendship I was apparently not given strong roots to go with it.  I seem to be a bit of a wanderer.  Or an exile.  So it was that I found myself at two different schools for undergrad and yet another for a masters program in self chosen exile while I pursued my academic destiny.  Yet, as hard as those transitions were I wouldn't trade them for anything.  My life would be sadly lacking without the amazing friends I found in all these places.  That is how I first found the group of friends that was to become the Scarlet Women.

Being a very mad person indeed I had decided that I needed to transfer universities mid-way through my career.  Not only did I need to transfer, I needed to move further across the country (I grew up in CA, started university in Chicago, IL, and finished in VA), and I needed to do it in the middle of the year.  I couldn't possibly transfer in the fall with a whole class of new freshman and normal transfers.  No.  I had to transfer in January.  And so it was that I found myself at The College of William and Mary mid-way through the year with a handful of other transfer students.  We adopted each other and soon became a transfer family.  We grew very close and had many adventures, including the formation of our own tribe, the building of a cardboard castle, and the creation of the Church of Coffee.  But the story I want to tell you about now is how we became the Scarlet Women.

While we were dueling, holding tribal dances, and partaking of the sacred liquid we also went to class.  We went to lots of classes, did lots of work and met lots of other students.  One summer my friend, who we will call Carmine San Diego, was attending a class in anthropology among other subjects.  It was a discussion based class with not too many people in it and since she is a nice and friendly person she would smile and say hello to all her fellow students when she met them around campus, including a student we will simply call Guy.  Guy had also been in one of her other classes the previous semester.  Carmine San Diego had crossed paths with Guy several times.  She had always smiled and said hello and he had smiled back.  One day while heading to Wawa, the magical purveyor of milkshakes and other late night treats she ran into Guy again.

On this particular day she asked how he was and after a brief and polite exchange he went on his way.  That seemed fairly normal.  Later that day he found her on facebook, they were not friends, and he wrote on her wall.  He asked "Do you stop and talk with all random strange men on the street or is it just me?"  Well, aside from being outright rude, this was an utterly astonishing thing to ask.  If you have two classes with someone you are hardly a random stranger off the street.  And why would you spend time searching for someone on facebook just to insult them?  Carmine San Diego told another friend at dinner and they started laughing about it.  Suddenly insults were flying back and forth.  "You say hi to your classmates?  You are such a brazen hussy!" "Trollop." "Strumpet." "You should wear a scarlet letter."  And that is how the Scarlet Women were born.  Carmine San Diego was the first scarlet woman and we all joined the ranks.  If smiling at people and making polite conversation makes you a strumpet then we were all guilty of being scarlet women.

As with most things in our group we took the idea of Scarlet Women and ran with it.  We gave each other red things and wore red as a badge of honour.  You have to laugh about these things.  There is just no point in being insulted by idiots.  Now, clearly saying hi to people was promiscuous.  So, if we were scarlet for saying hello to people I don't even want to know what he thought about the sorority girls on campus.  So, naturally the sorostitutes and the scarlets were engaged in territory wars.  We "worked the corner" by Wawa where our whole existence began and where the milkshakes lived.  That is, we went there often to get milkshakes (you wouldn't see a sorority girl there they were too busy being worried about gaining weight and not fitting in their perfect white dresses with matching pearl necklaces.)  They had sorority court further down the street.

From then on whenever we went to Wawa for milkshakes we would laugh about working our territory.  Whenever we wore red it was in pride of membership.  You have to be a little bit proud.  Think about, if someone is so overwhelmed by a polite hello that they call you scarlet, then you've got it going on.  So, if you have ever been insulted without cause, told you were scarlet or slutty for a perfectly acceptable skirt, called a tart for standing with your hips a little asymmetrically,  or someone implied that you were promiscuous when you were simply going about your day, then you are a Scarlet Woman.  A woman of such class and beauty that mere mortals cannot handle you.  Let's face it, they are just intimidated and envious of your natural class and charm.  Don't let them bother you.  Stay classy.  Take their insults as a compliment.  Wear a little bit of red, a ring, a pin or maybe a scarf and just smile.

I am a scavenger.

At university, my friends and I used to joke that we had to go scavenge for food in the cafeteria.  Not everything they served was edible.  If you have eaten in school cafeterias you know what I'm talking about.  Sometimes the only things that looked edible were the desserts, other days it was cereal for dinner and some days you had to choke down something before you had time to wonder what it was actually made of.    I have to say, if you can keep an entire table full of intelligent people guessing at the contents of your dish you have skills.  Perhaps not the set of skills I would recommend as necessary for being a cook, but nonetheless an impressive set.  Although we did often amuse ourselves at guessing ingredients, it was not always a joking matter.  Scavenging was what we termed the desperate search for real food that often led to an assorted plate of things you found edible.  Usually it meant not eating the main dishes that were being served and instead returning with a collection of gummy bears, gold fish crackers or if you were lucky fruit that you found on the salad bar or hidden by the sandwich stuff. 

It wasn't all bad.  We had fun with even this sad lot in life.  We took the song savages from Pocahontas and gave it our own lyrics. "Scavengers, scavengers barely even eating.  Scavengers, scavengers through the caf we're creeping." The frequent presence of gummy bears at our table led to the creation of Gummy Bear Theatre.  We adapted Shakespearean plays and large historical events and had them performed by Gummy Bear Theatre.  It may have looked something like this.

The best one was probably our highly fictionalized retelling of Hannibal's crossing of the alps with elephants in tow.

Apparently I was destined to take scavenging to another level as a post grad.  I often found that I didn't have time to do proper shopping trips.  So I had to scavenge in my cupboards for things that could be eaten together.  It was not uncommon for me to have peanut butter and jelly but no bread, cereal but no milk, and pasta but no sauce.  I did try to get food but studying just ate up my life.  What kicked me out the door and into the grocery stores though was the lack of chocolate.  Realizing this about myself I had to limit the amount of chocolate I bought at one time.  This way I would have to go out to buy it more often and then be out to buy more real food too.

Now that I have graduated I seem to do better about buying food regularly.  Yet, last night I managed to take scavenging to a whole new level.  I have progressed further into my scavenger lifestyle by moving on from food.  I now collect things.  A few days ago I noticed a table out on the street with the trash bins.  I was too tired at the time to really think about it.  A few more days of passing by it had given me time to contemplate the table sitting on the sidewalk.  That poor three-legged table was going to be thrown away.  What a sad fate.  How could somebody waste such a perfectly good three-legged table?  Well, last night I was sitting in my room thinking that I could use a little table for craft projects.

So, I put on my coat and shoes and went out to the street just behind my house.  I rescued that three-legged table from it's sidewalk grave.  I was undeterred by the slugs that had already decided to make it their home.  I brought it home and cleaned it thoroughly.  I resurrected it from useless discarded furniture to craft table.  Where better to create things then on a three-legged table?  If it can be rescued, if it can still work then there is no limit to what can be repurposed.  And if I get a little paint or glue here or there, what matter?  That is what it is there for and it will only add to its character.

I had better go do crafty things before I decide to start scavenging for more things.