It was a bit stressful because I was tweaking my resume and tying to write a cover letter that would land me an interview, but good because I'm looking at a possible job that I might actually enjoy!
It didn't rain today. The sun was out all day, and beautiful!
Then this evening I checked the mail...
A letter from the IRS informing me about $25 that either I owe them, or they owe me. Hard to tell; they weren't even remotely clear about that. Sheesh. I've been going at it with the IRS for two years now. When is it going to end?
A letter from my car insurance carrier. They're dropping my policy because my son had a bump up last year, my daughter had a bump up the year before, and I had my own bump up the year before that. Three accidents by three different drivers in the same household in three years; never mind that two of them are brand new drivers and that my own accident was the only one I've had in 34 years of driving! Sheesh again. I reckon they think we're setting a precedent or something.
And lastly...
A letter from my Internet service provider that I am being accused by Fox Studios of being in violation of the copyright law, having stolen one of their movies by download. And it's NOT true. That download was killed and the movie never made it into this house. But my ISP is considering suspending my service anyway simply because the accusation has been made. Internet laws do not allow for recourse by the accused. Sheesh and shit.
It's the dance of Life. One step forward, three steps back, shuffle to the left, and we all fall down.
Monday, January 8, 2007
Thursday, January 4, 2007
Fitting In
I spent the better part of yesterday morning searching online job sites, hoping to find something in the communications field that doesn’t require a degree. It was not fun. In fact, it was downright depressing. Of the hundreds of jobs I searched within a fifty mile radius, only a handful were actually in the field of communications, and most of them required specific knowledge of legal, medical, or other technically oriented operations. The rest required at least a Bachelor’s degree. Unfortunately, this is what I’m constantly faced with in my search for meaningful employment. *Sigh. I have found a few jobs here and there for which I was more than qualified and would love to have landed, but was only once invited to an interview.
I’m not an ambitious person. I’m not motivated by money, prestige, title, or any of the other common motivators. I’m actually quite modest, and never knew how to handle the recognition and awards I received in my last life without blushing with total embarrassment. And don’t get me wrong about money; I need and want a good income if I’m going to keep paying the bills, keep my kids in college, and keep a little something on which to retire. But at fifty years of age, and with no degree and no employment history, employers probably consider me a long-shot when compared to the young graduates applying for the same jobs. I imagine they think I’m not worth the investment. (This is where I’m supposed to shrug and say, “Oh, well. Their loss.” But I’m the one who feels like a loser.)
All of my published work was accomplished as a freelancer, and while it supplemented my husband’s income, it would not be enough in my present circumstances to even get by. Besides, it was a very specific niche I was fortunate enough to find and fill, but which no longer exists. I moved away from that place and time, that community, and an opportunity like that hasn’t presented itself here. What I need is full-time employment, hopefully something meaningful and worth investing my skills as a writer and researcher. In the meantime…
*Sigh. In the meantime I seem to be playing the waiting game. Transition takes time. But I trust that Life is preparing a place for me, another niche that only I can fill. And as soon as she finishes carving out that niche, she’ll slide me into it, and it will be a perfect fit.
I hope it’s soon.
I’m not an ambitious person. I’m not motivated by money, prestige, title, or any of the other common motivators. I’m actually quite modest, and never knew how to handle the recognition and awards I received in my last life without blushing with total embarrassment. And don’t get me wrong about money; I need and want a good income if I’m going to keep paying the bills, keep my kids in college, and keep a little something on which to retire. But at fifty years of age, and with no degree and no employment history, employers probably consider me a long-shot when compared to the young graduates applying for the same jobs. I imagine they think I’m not worth the investment. (This is where I’m supposed to shrug and say, “Oh, well. Their loss.” But I’m the one who feels like a loser.)
All of my published work was accomplished as a freelancer, and while it supplemented my husband’s income, it would not be enough in my present circumstances to even get by. Besides, it was a very specific niche I was fortunate enough to find and fill, but which no longer exists. I moved away from that place and time, that community, and an opportunity like that hasn’t presented itself here. What I need is full-time employment, hopefully something meaningful and worth investing my skills as a writer and researcher. In the meantime…
*Sigh. In the meantime I seem to be playing the waiting game. Transition takes time. But I trust that Life is preparing a place for me, another niche that only I can fill. And as soon as she finishes carving out that niche, she’ll slide me into it, and it will be a perfect fit.
I hope it’s soon.
Tuesday, January 2, 2007
Finding Inspiration
So I’m still thinking about The Lovers, still thinking I want to find my passion, follow it to where I belong, and fall in love with Life again. And last night I was talking to a friend about the formulaic fiction that’s in bookstores now and the recipe-following authors who are producing it. Between the two of us, we couldn’t decide what was worse; the authors and their predictable fiction or the public’s enthusiasm for what amounts to fast food.
I don’t know about the rest of the literate population, but when I pick up a work of fiction I’m making a huge emotional investment. I’m involving myself in the lives of people I will come to know and love - or hate. From the first word to the last, I’m right there with them, committed to them, for better or worse. But time after time, book after book, I encounter the same cookie-cutter characters who possess about as much depth as the paper on which they were written.
I think my friend summed it up quite succinctly when he said, “Books aren’t written anymore; they’re published.” And he’s right. It’s all about the celebrity author these days - his last bestseller, his next bestseller. You used to be able to read a book cover to learn what the story inside is about; that’s how publishers sold the book. But the covers on books these days are about selling the author.
Along with solving Life’s mystery and serving others, one of my true passions is writing. From the moment I wake, until I go to sleep, all of my thoughts revolve around words and writing. At the core of my being, I am a writer. But, alas, I don’t do fiction. I can, and have - and with some success, I might add, but it just doesn’t ring true with me. It doesn’t resonate within me like when I piece together a myriad of sources, hundreds of hours of research, and dozens of interviews to craft a non-fiction story that impacts the community, contributes something to the greater good, and has the potential to affect our quality of life, even on a small scale.
I’ve met, known, and befriended a number of non-fiction authors and scholars over the last couple of decades, some of whom have published enough articles and books to fill a small home library. I’ve known writers who, while not quite as prolific, have nonetheless distinguished themselves with numerous publications in their field. Then there are those I’ve known who, having written a single book, spent the rest of their lives milking it for all it was worth, and settled into their “fame” like cow patties in a hot, dry field, until even the flies lost interest in them. One of them especially annoys me; having exhausted, twenty years ago, what little writer’s inspiration he was born with, he now keeps an online blog in which he prattles on about himself and links to and comments on the news and other author’s works, yet insists he’s a scholar. And my annoyance doesn’t stem from professional jealousy; I’ve already published more words than he could ever hope to write.
Inspiration is the thing. You have to be inspired to write, inspired to craft and create something out of nothing more than a thought. The heart is the seat of inspiration. It’s the rich and fertile (or sterile and polluted) field where we sow the seeds of thought that sprout ideas that then become our inspiration. All good writers know you write with your heart, and if they don‘t know that, then they aren‘t good writers, even if their name is on a dozen books. Inspiration is what separates the creative thinker from the unimaginative bore. It’s the difference between a chef and a grill cook.
Somewhere between my last life and this one, I lost my inspiration. I think it exited at about the same time and through the same window as my faith. Life had betrayed me, and I stopped believing in her. But she had always been my inspiration.
I have always found god to be the most accessible in his role as creator. He’s a writer, too, and with a word created the sun and the moon, the heavens and the earth… Life as we know it. In that place where his creativity and mine meet, we find common ground, and there we become one in purpose and desire. That’s where I find belonging; that’s where I feel whole, where my heart is it’s happiest.
Perhaps my passion lies in my creativity as a writer. Perhaps that’s the path I should be following now in pursuit of my bliss. Perhaps in writing me into his story of Life, god meant for me to find new inspiration in my fall from grace. Perhaps.
I don’t know about the rest of the literate population, but when I pick up a work of fiction I’m making a huge emotional investment. I’m involving myself in the lives of people I will come to know and love - or hate. From the first word to the last, I’m right there with them, committed to them, for better or worse. But time after time, book after book, I encounter the same cookie-cutter characters who possess about as much depth as the paper on which they were written.
I think my friend summed it up quite succinctly when he said, “Books aren’t written anymore; they’re published.” And he’s right. It’s all about the celebrity author these days - his last bestseller, his next bestseller. You used to be able to read a book cover to learn what the story inside is about; that’s how publishers sold the book. But the covers on books these days are about selling the author.
Along with solving Life’s mystery and serving others, one of my true passions is writing. From the moment I wake, until I go to sleep, all of my thoughts revolve around words and writing. At the core of my being, I am a writer. But, alas, I don’t do fiction. I can, and have - and with some success, I might add, but it just doesn’t ring true with me. It doesn’t resonate within me like when I piece together a myriad of sources, hundreds of hours of research, and dozens of interviews to craft a non-fiction story that impacts the community, contributes something to the greater good, and has the potential to affect our quality of life, even on a small scale.
I’ve met, known, and befriended a number of non-fiction authors and scholars over the last couple of decades, some of whom have published enough articles and books to fill a small home library. I’ve known writers who, while not quite as prolific, have nonetheless distinguished themselves with numerous publications in their field. Then there are those I’ve known who, having written a single book, spent the rest of their lives milking it for all it was worth, and settled into their “fame” like cow patties in a hot, dry field, until even the flies lost interest in them. One of them especially annoys me; having exhausted, twenty years ago, what little writer’s inspiration he was born with, he now keeps an online blog in which he prattles on about himself and links to and comments on the news and other author’s works, yet insists he’s a scholar. And my annoyance doesn’t stem from professional jealousy; I’ve already published more words than he could ever hope to write.
Inspiration is the thing. You have to be inspired to write, inspired to craft and create something out of nothing more than a thought. The heart is the seat of inspiration. It’s the rich and fertile (or sterile and polluted) field where we sow the seeds of thought that sprout ideas that then become our inspiration. All good writers know you write with your heart, and if they don‘t know that, then they aren‘t good writers, even if their name is on a dozen books. Inspiration is what separates the creative thinker from the unimaginative bore. It’s the difference between a chef and a grill cook.
Somewhere between my last life and this one, I lost my inspiration. I think it exited at about the same time and through the same window as my faith. Life had betrayed me, and I stopped believing in her. But she had always been my inspiration.
I have always found god to be the most accessible in his role as creator. He’s a writer, too, and with a word created the sun and the moon, the heavens and the earth… Life as we know it. In that place where his creativity and mine meet, we find common ground, and there we become one in purpose and desire. That’s where I find belonging; that’s where I feel whole, where my heart is it’s happiest.
Perhaps my passion lies in my creativity as a writer. Perhaps that’s the path I should be following now in pursuit of my bliss. Perhaps in writing me into his story of Life, god meant for me to find new inspiration in my fall from grace. Perhaps.
Monday, January 1, 2007
It's A Puzzle
I’ve been thinking about the Tarot card that’s meant to be my focus throughout the new year. The Lovers. Joseph Campbell always encouraged his students to “follow your bliss.” That means doing what you love and loving what you do. And that’s The Lovers; giving in to your passion and letting it lead you where it will.
There’s just so many things I love to do, it’s hard for me to pin my bliss/passion down to just one thing. I’ve always loved learning and am a voracious reader and student of history, psychology, anthropology, religion, medicine, math, science… you name it! I see each discipline as being like a puzzle that needs solving. But then I also see each discipline as being a piece of a larger puzzle that, when fitted together just so, reveals a picture. And what’s the picture? … Life!
Understanding the intricacies of Life, how we and everything connects; that’s my number one passion. And when I’m able to comprehend even a moment of it, that’s my bliss. That’s when I feel my soul release a sigh so deeply satisfying and my spirit enter into a place of peace so profound, I think I’ve passed through the gates of Paradise.
Unfortunately, there’s not much of a job market for puzzle of life solvers, and if there was it would probably require a stack of specialized degrees, of which I have not one. I dropped out of college to get married.
But being a homemaker! That, too, was my passion. I loved being able to use my natural gifts to create a “home.” And a home isn’t just a house. It isn’t just a family. It’s a concept. It’s an abstract idea with a general connotation that each of us personalize to make our very own. My home centered around the four of us but encompassed the community, past and present, time and place. We were, as a family, where we belonged. We were home. And we took home with us wherever we went. We were connected, not just to each other, but to the big picture. *she sighs.
I was thinking about that today as I did my son’s laundry and cleaned his room. He’s a big boy, eighteen, goes to school full-time, works part-time. He can take care of himself pretty well, but I like to do what I can for him. I’ve always given him lots of room to be himself, and the only sure way to keep that from spilling into the rest of the house is to pick up his slack. Lol. But the point here is that I like being needed. I like being useful. And cleaning my son’s room and doing his laundry makes me feel needed and useful. Don’t get me wrong. There’s a big difference between cleaning for love and cleaning for money, and I would NOT enjoy cleaning someone else’s house. Been there, done that; felt as cheap and used as a two-dollar whore when he handed me the money on my way out.
I did a lot of volunteer work in my last life, and I loved it. Talk about being needed! I found one organization I was especially passionate about, and gave them my all. They were unsung when I found them, doing a lot of good work, but not getting the recognition they deserved. They were very inclusive; working in the community but keeping to themselves. Once I realized what they were capable of, I simply organized their organization, timed their planned events, added a few of my own, and coordinated with state and local media to bring them out of the shadows and into the light. I even got the governor and a few senators to join us for some of those events! They had been dedicated to preserving the community and it’s quality of life, and although they could see the big picture, they couldn’t see themselves in it. They thought they worked behind the scenes. But once they realized they were one of the scenes in the big picture, they became part of it. They’re now a mobilized force in the community, with a lot of political muscle.
I enjoyed my service in that organization. I loved being part of something bigger than me, bigger than all of us. I loved how I fitted in with them, and the sense of belonging I felt when I was with them. That’s what I want to feel again. That’s where I want to be. But getting there… now that’s a puzzle.
There’s just so many things I love to do, it’s hard for me to pin my bliss/passion down to just one thing. I’ve always loved learning and am a voracious reader and student of history, psychology, anthropology, religion, medicine, math, science… you name it! I see each discipline as being like a puzzle that needs solving. But then I also see each discipline as being a piece of a larger puzzle that, when fitted together just so, reveals a picture. And what’s the picture? … Life!
Understanding the intricacies of Life, how we and everything connects; that’s my number one passion. And when I’m able to comprehend even a moment of it, that’s my bliss. That’s when I feel my soul release a sigh so deeply satisfying and my spirit enter into a place of peace so profound, I think I’ve passed through the gates of Paradise.
Unfortunately, there’s not much of a job market for puzzle of life solvers, and if there was it would probably require a stack of specialized degrees, of which I have not one. I dropped out of college to get married.
But being a homemaker! That, too, was my passion. I loved being able to use my natural gifts to create a “home.” And a home isn’t just a house. It isn’t just a family. It’s a concept. It’s an abstract idea with a general connotation that each of us personalize to make our very own. My home centered around the four of us but encompassed the community, past and present, time and place. We were, as a family, where we belonged. We were home. And we took home with us wherever we went. We were connected, not just to each other, but to the big picture. *she sighs.
I was thinking about that today as I did my son’s laundry and cleaned his room. He’s a big boy, eighteen, goes to school full-time, works part-time. He can take care of himself pretty well, but I like to do what I can for him. I’ve always given him lots of room to be himself, and the only sure way to keep that from spilling into the rest of the house is to pick up his slack. Lol. But the point here is that I like being needed. I like being useful. And cleaning my son’s room and doing his laundry makes me feel needed and useful. Don’t get me wrong. There’s a big difference between cleaning for love and cleaning for money, and I would NOT enjoy cleaning someone else’s house. Been there, done that; felt as cheap and used as a two-dollar whore when he handed me the money on my way out.
I did a lot of volunteer work in my last life, and I loved it. Talk about being needed! I found one organization I was especially passionate about, and gave them my all. They were unsung when I found them, doing a lot of good work, but not getting the recognition they deserved. They were very inclusive; working in the community but keeping to themselves. Once I realized what they were capable of, I simply organized their organization, timed their planned events, added a few of my own, and coordinated with state and local media to bring them out of the shadows and into the light. I even got the governor and a few senators to join us for some of those events! They had been dedicated to preserving the community and it’s quality of life, and although they could see the big picture, they couldn’t see themselves in it. They thought they worked behind the scenes. But once they realized they were one of the scenes in the big picture, they became part of it. They’re now a mobilized force in the community, with a lot of political muscle.
I enjoyed my service in that organization. I loved being part of something bigger than me, bigger than all of us. I loved how I fitted in with them, and the sense of belonging I felt when I was with them. That’s what I want to feel again. That’s where I want to be. But getting there… now that’s a puzzle.
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