Life As a Raisin

I hate it when I find out I'm not unique or special in some particular way. It's a blind-sided bitch-slap to the ego really. Of course, there have been many times when I've discovered I'm not a rare human specimen (apparently 53 million other people actually watch American Idol), but I was sure the pain and heartache I've been indulging in recently has been mine, mine, all mine.

For the last few weeks (and if I were honest here, I'd say for the last few decades), I've really been struggling with my Point or Purpose. I’ve tortured myself in a desperate attempt to define my talents, cried over being overly soft on the skill set, whined that changing careers is impossible without reeducation and generally, found myself depressed at the prospect of trying, again, to find that thing that might be home to the passion in me. I've named it a lack of career focus or Career Aspiration because, well, that makes sense, right? It seems an easy way to package up years full of lingering doubt and uncertainty of where exactly I can supernova in my universe. It also seems to be how a statistician would package it. I'm American, I’m female. I am part of a single letter generation (X? Y? I’m not sure), I feel entitled to titles without earning them, I spend at least a third of my waking life at work, I define myself by the work I do, I commute an average of 30 minutes a day and I’ll probably wait until all my eggs are dead before I attempt to have kids.

But I digress.

For the last more than a few years I’ve been told to read What Color Is My Parachute as it supposedly addressed many of the questions I’ve persistently pursued. I’ve had it on my book shelf for as long as it’s been referred and every once in a while, in the throes of some work upheaval or a particularly annoying day full of retarded email or Dumb Questions people keep telling me don’t exist, I’d take it off its perch, thumb through it in a half-hearted attempt to make a change and put it back once the wave of job dissatisfaction passes.

Here’s the thing. I have read it this time. Well, OK, not all of it. But I’m reading it. Here’s the more annoying thing. It really does address all those stupid questions I’ve been suffering through all this time. Seriously. And you know what? All I can say is WHAT THE F?! This guy has taken my suffering and pain and made millions of dollars by writing about it. In fact, I’m pretty sure he’s taken pages straight from my journal and pasted it into chapters 4 and 5. What a jerk. Worse, I can’t even take this life experience and profit from it because he’s already done it. Now what am I supposed to write about? Thanks a whole hell of a lot Richard Nelson Bolles.

Actually, I don’t hate him. But I do think his sense of enthusiasm about his approach is optimistic. A huge aspect of his method includes networking. Sure, that works great if people actually think you’re worth referring. But what if they don’t? What if people think like I do in my pool of pity and party of self doubt, “Yeah, she’s great but what exactly can she do?” Take THAT Mr. Bolles. Bet you haven’t had to deal with cynicism like that before. Unless you really are reading my journal, in which case, I’m sure this is covered in a chapter I haven’t read yet.

Regardless, I’m still reading. And I’ve got ideas. I’ve got dreams. I’ve got things ‘a brewin’ as They say. These things are encouraging and if not to me, then maybe to the 4 of you that read this and are patiently waiting for me to change topics.

I’m still not quite ready to take the risk to make it happen. I’m wading in the daydream and distressed about my relationship with time and impatience. But I’m struggling with the question, “Can I really be happy being poor?” Sadly, I can’t easily answer that. Do I really have to be poor to be unhappy? Can’t I just immediately become famous or awesome or expert at whatever I try next? Can’t God simply send a memo to the world and let them all know I rule?

My father once told me (as I’m sure father’s everywhere do), “You can do anything you put your mind to.” I always took that to imply that you had to find that one thing to occupy your mind. Maybe that’s not it at all. Maybe he should have said, “You can do everything you put your mind to.” And maybe it’s just time to start.

Posted by vibespright at 06:14 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

I’m soft. In fact, I think I’m the gooey in the middle kind of soft. If right now, you’re thinking I’m about to launch into a diatribe about the 15 pounds I need to lose, screw you! I’m talking about my skills, people. And according to my business qualifications, you might say I’m made up entirely of doughy, squishy, spongy, supple, pliable, “soft skills”. These are the skills that people say you’re “lucky” to have or can’t be taught. So they don’t teach ‘em in school and you can’t quite capture them on a resume. But I’m trying.

What I wouldn’t give to have a tangible skill or a deliverable that is concrete. Like, I wish I was a dentist. Dentist’s go into work every morning and know they are going to look in mouths, fill some teeth, poke some gums, remind you how important it is to floss (again). Sure, they might have a high depression rate from all the mercury they huff, but still. They know what they do day-to-day. Life is predictable. Their work is predictable. Maybe there are rare days when someone comes in with an emergency cavity or bleeding gums. And maybe that throws off the schedule, but that’s about as hectic as it gets.

But I don’t have mad dental skillz. I’m left with the soft skills. Sure, I can talk to people. I have “excellent communication skills”, I can be “flexible”, a “team player”, or a “fast learner” but what does all that give me when I don’t have an MBA or my mom to vouch for me?

Now that we agree I have these things (ahem), how do I SELL these things?

Honestly, maybe I don’t care about selling these things. I’m sure this is just another tangent in my quest to find My Thing. But while searching, I would still like to figure out what my marketable skills are – and maybe that will lead me down the path to discovering it.

I’ve had two distinct pieces of advice offered to me recently. The first was to ask God for direction – and if I keep myself open to what is offered, the right path will be revealed to me. But how do you know when God speaks? For example, last night, I very clearly said, “God, can you let me know which direction I should be taking here?” and nothing. No spark of realization, no epiphany, no burning bush. And now my mom has her prayer group praying for me (thanks, Prayer Group!) I think I’m going to ask her to make sure she keeps the lines open.

The other was a bit less, well, ethereal. In fact, it would be practical if it weren’t so elusive. I was told to find my passion and then, even more importantly, find the environment that allows me to embrace my passion and make use of it. Ahhh… ok, first, the ever annoying “find your f’ing passion” comment. OK. Right. I get it. I’m supposed to find what I love to do. I’m trying, OK? I’m looking. I’ve identified soft skills. That’s a start. But! BUT! This is the first time I’ve had someone acknowledge that the place you’re in has to appreciate your passion for your passion to grow – and that’s not just any place – it’s got to be the right place.

Great. Now I have two questions I need to answer – what is my passion and where can I share it? But for some reason, I feel closer to it somehow as if knowing that the place it needs to live is just as important as the birthing of it. That means it’s a combination of things that make it work – it’s not just me or something I’m doing or not doing that I don’t know about that will make it all come together. And for some reason, that relieves me greatly.

And while I search for yet another answer, I’m gonna get hard. Or at least think hard. And who knows, maybe even realize that soft isn’t so bad after all.

Posted by vibespright at 12:57 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

It seems like Humpty Dumpty was on to something. In fact I think that Egg knew a thing or two about commitment because, even though, like me, he was a wall sitter, he, unlike me, made a decision about that wall.

OK, maybe he didn’t DECIDE to fall so much. But he did it with enough conviction that he couldn’t be put back together again. That’s gotta count for something.

I’ve always been good with my sense of balance and Lord knows I love standing on top of things and checking out the view. Some say I’ve turned the act into an art. And after years of rigorous practice and intense focus, I would confidently call myself a professional Fence Sitter.

Some of you out there may read that and judge me. If so, quit that. You know who you are and you’ve done it too. But I admit it. I spend a lot of my life straddling decisions. I like to call this the ‘Gathering Information’ phase. Mostly, because it makes me feel better about this process I go through. Yeah, I will ask questions, ask more questions, consider options, and then some other options, talk about the options, share my thoughts about those options with others, pine over outcomes, harness every outcome I can, future trip – with a full luggage ensemble trailing behind me, wonder if I’m doing the right thing, if there is a right thing and then, when I really need to make that decision, still be confounded about which direction to choose.

My friend loves to tell me I have one foot in everything but both feet are cold – and that I just need to jump in with both feet and see what happens. Maybe she’s right. I think somewhere along the way I learned that by not committing to any one thing, I could partially commit to all things. Or maybe that’s how I like to dress it up and I am just terrified of commitment. The irony of course, is that I’m acting committed. I’m doing all the committed things, I’m just thinking non-committed thoughts. You know, just in case. And in my 7 years of collecting elective courses (what?), I called this the Hummingbird Approach. I mean, c’mon. The world is full of pretty flowers, how could I choose just one?

This approach was great for a career undergrad and it worked out really well for man-jumping through short term relationships where someone (uh, him) always smelled of soup or laughed a bit too much like Howdy Doody. Most importantly, it’s done wonders for my artistic expression. Seriously, I love being tortured by the act of deciding. It’s slightly healthier than a drug addiction and it creates great self absorbed writing material. But I think at some point, ya just need to take a chance, right? You just need to say, I’m gonna risk this and see where it leads me. And man, I love that idea.

Don’t get me wrong. I do make decisions. I do it all the time. In fact, I’m almost spontaneous about the decision. For example, it took me MONTHS of torturous second, third, and fourth thoughts to decide to move to Arizona. But finally I just said, “fuck it” without having any saner or more sensible reason to do so. And here I am, melting in the sun. So really, it’s just the process of deciding that takes me a long time. It’s going through the rigamarole, navigating the obstacle course of choices, and hoping some divine intervention will find me worthy of The Message that will set me on my true course.

It’s true, I’m still waiting for God to provide me the path and I have a lot of faith that he’ll be coming to me in some form soon. Just so you know, I tend to walk slowly by bushes – just in case. Until then, I think I’m going to employ some other decision making techniques. I’m making a concentrated effort to live my life by the toss of a coin, by instinct, by faith, and by hope. I don’t know about you, but I’m excited to see where this leads me.

Posted by vibespright at 09:24 PM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

I'm a mess. A ridiculous, narcissistic emotional mess. I'm full of questions and full of shit. I'm bloated with worry, water weight and a variety of dessert. And I can't see past the absorption of my own existence.

I have nothing in common with George Michael - though I wish I could be more like him. No, I don't want to be found in a public restroom investigating a glory hole, but I do want to have faith.

Having spent much of my life anticipating it, I’ve found that I try to control the outcome of, well, everything. I’m sure there’s a deep seeded psychological reason for it based in fear. Most issues are, right? Right? But the truth is, I think it’s because I lack faith.

Faith has the power to remind us that we can handle any situation. I mean, I’ve lived through stuff. I’ve proven I can survive disappointment, heartbreak, a father’s backhand. I’ve had bad bosses, bad boyfriends, bad roommates. I’ve dealt with broken homes, broken cars and break ups. I’ve had pets die, friends die, family die…. So why am I convinced that I need to prevent it or manage it or control it all before it happens? Is it a vain attempt to prevent some possible pain?

Sometimes, before I go to sleep, I close my eyes tightly and ask the Universe to show me its will. I lay there capitulating to the Universe, trying to offer myself up to whatever I’m supposed to learn. But I’m a liar and the Universe knows it. What I really want is to have the Universe take care of me and make everything better and make it easy. What I really want to ask is, “How can I get what I want?” or “How can I win the lottery?” Not, “Will you reveal your will?” I even bargain with it, in my head. Not unlike a 4 year old child who really wants a last story read to her, actually, “Universe, I promise I’ll learn this lesson if you just read ONE more story….” The irony is, My Universe is reading the story, I just happen to be the main character and can’t see yet, where the story is going.

I want to believe there’s something good waiting for me. I want to believe there’s something good happening for me *right now*. I want to believe that there’s a lesson waiting to be learned and there’s a lesson I’m learning as I type. I want to believe that there is a power greater than myself taking care of things so I don’t have to. I want to say, as Carrie Underwood sings, Jesus Take the Wheel. OK, I watch American Idol and I don’t really care if it’s Jesus who’s driving – I don’t even know if he’s a good driver. But I want to believe he is and that he might even be better at it than I am even if there were no such things as cars when he was alive.

I just want to believe: in something, in someone, in you, in the beat, in the children being our future, that when you fall in love it will last forever, in what your heart is saying, I can fly, that I’m walking on air and feel so fre-e-e, that for every drop of rain that falls a flower grows, that you and me can turn a whisper to a scream, and the angels listen, god hears us pray. Most of all, I want to believe when someone claps a faerie lives. Damn it.

I think it’s time to start shaking it, whatever the IT is that makes Faith real. I need to start looking in those places the lucky devout find it. The soapbox, the rock, the hill, the mount. I want to go to the Church of Unshakable Faith and judge and pity the world around me for not being blessed by God but feel fucking incredible KNOWING I’ll be saved. I want to feel sad for those without God’s presence and ye of little faith. Hell, I’ll pray at the Church of Elvis and wiggle what God gave me if I can find harmony in the rhythm of the world.

Faith is all I want. Universe, when you get a second, could you tell me that story?

Posted by vibespright at 12:09 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Oftentimes I look in the mirror and make a face. It’s usually an “I look better when I pucker” face and so I try to elongate my jaw-line or tilt my head at a particular angle or pull in my cheeks just so. Apparently, it’s obvious and it looks like I’m posing. Which, OK, I am. But once I’m doing that and once I’m actually looking at my face, or perhaps, past my face, I often wonder – what’s in there?

I can still look down at my hands and be amazed that they belong to me. I can’t quite get past the idea that I am in me. I am, enthralled at the idea that I have this physical part that is connected to my mental part and it does what I want it to (most of the time) when I think it. It’s like I have a movie camera mounted on my shoulders and I have this incredible ability to capture the most surreal aspects of an every day occurrence and blur it just right or spin it this way or that to capture something. A truth, a look, a fantasy….

And I’ve been watching a lot lately. This isn’t different than most times except that this theme keeps recurring. I want to know what exactly is that me part that drives the me-you-see part? I want to know how to define the director in me. What AM I? Who AM I? What’s the point?

A part of me knows I’ve been asking this since kindergarten. But I never got the answer so I keep asking.

I asked a good friend of mine recently, a friend who is very ambitious high powered career man, how he defines himself. He works 16 hour days. He has a family. He doesn’t sleep well. He drinks an exorbitant amount of coffee daily. While reflecting in a way that showed he was trying to come up with something good, he said he does non-profit stuff and that’s really what satisfies him. And in a very magical series of words, he tried to convince us that the job he spent 16 hours a day dedicated to, the job he neglects his family for, the job he sacrifices his body, his relationships, and his health for, is only a means to an end. A means by which he’ll help house orphaned children.

I love the idea. I love the good idea that it is a means to an end. But how much do we sacrifice for that end? And if we lose everything along the way, does the end actually justify the means? Maybe it’s OK to simply say, “I’m defined by my job. I love what I do. I am a XYZ and this is what I feel I’m meant to do” Maybe it's OK to say, “everything else is less important to me.” Maybe it will be possible to look back years and years from now and say, “Man, I wish I would have made that meeting. That meeting may have made all the difference…”

I’m conflicted. I want to know at what point are we more than what we do for a living. I can’t recall how many times upon meeting someone the first of the three questions asked is, “what do you do?” And there’s no need to explain the question. Most people answer directly about work (or look appropriately uncomfortable depending on their situation) and provide the summary of the resume. And it’s accepted. This is what we are – this labor we dedicate to our economy. And our value is assessed by how much money our time costs. You’re an engineer you say? Oh, you must be worth X hours per week. You are probably more valuable than me in the grand scheme of life….

But what if we have no other answer? What if someone says, “what do you do?” And there’s nothing to say? There’s just a blank stare and an uncomfortable shifting of weight and an unspoken plea to get passed the question and onto other topics of insignificance? What if there’s nothing to fill the gap and that you actually are nothing unless you do something?

And that’s where I wonder. I think it’s true. We are nothing unless we do something. But the question becomes, what do we have to do to be worthy or valuable or interesting or acceptable? Do I have to work for someone else? Do I have to have a cool job? Do I have to make money? Do I have to make a difference? Can I simply do things? Explore things? Wonder about things? Create things? Be passionate?

So Who AM I? I keep asking the question and the answer keeps changing, so I probably should. But when the question is asked, who do you think I am? And at the end of the day, whose answer is important?

Posted by vibespright at 11:51 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

I wonder what it's going to feel like. That empty space where you were. The lonely hand, the too much time, both sides of the bed.

I wonder if it will hurt.

I wonder what I'll think about.

I wonder what you'll be doing.

I wonder if I can change.

I wonder if you can.

I wonder if I could ever not be afraid.

I wonder if I could take a chance.

I wonder if I could tell you what I was thinking. Really.

I wonder if I could show you.

I wonder if you'd be brave, or happy, or angry, or sad.

I wonder if you knew all the secrets, the dark ones too, if you'd still want to know.

I wonder if things were different, where would they be.

I wonder how about a lot of things. I wonder if you do, too.

I wonder why I can't feel sometimes.

I wonder why I can't remember sometimes.

I wonder how long I'll feel your hand on my back.

I wonder in the power of the pinky swear.

I wonder if I'll start a fight, just to end it.

I wonder if I love the tumultuousness of things enough to create it where it's not.

I wonder how long we can sit in silence and pretend.

I wonder how many times I'll ask myself.

I wonder how many times you'll ignore it.

I wonder where we are going.

I wonder if you wonder that too.

Posted by vibespright at 01:38 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)