some nonfiction

Here are two pieces I posted recently on the Facebook (remember when it was called that?) concerning my very-real-and-very-valid quarter life crisis. I am in the full throes of my QLC, and I am reeling a little. These pieces were written within the last week and are still very much my feelings on the whole QLC business and what it feels like inside. I will post them in the order they were written. This will be a long post, but perhaps in all my verbiage, you will find something true to grab on to.

*

preface
so here’s the thing– i sort of experienced the beginnings of the beginning of a meltdown tonight. don’t worry, i was able to check myself before i wrecked myself. but the truth of the matter is, i still feel very unsettled.

part the one: job

i have not been in any kind of real career-type-job situation all year (sadly my internship doesn’t count, as i have to leave there at october’s end). the job market is a disaster, and who knows when it will be back up to snuff, etc. etc. i know, i know, am i a brilliant economist or what?

when i think about the job market and getting a job and my degree i start to wonder: manage an organization? is that really what i want to do? is that really what i’m cut out to do? is that really what i was born to do? i mean, people have to show me how to use a copier for crying out loud. (true story.)

i remember telling people before i went to grad school that i was choosing that degree program (nonprofit organizations) because i wanted to help people, {not because i wanted to manage an organization}. i can even remember talking about “helping people” in my classes. needless to say, my professional goal was the least sophisticated of them all.

granted, a nonprofit will fail without the right leadership, even with the best of intentions and the most passionate people out there trying to get things going. but i guess my fear is that i will be more and more removed from what’s going on “on the ground” if i were to end up in a management position.

so what if i don’t want to move up the ladder, what if i want to stay down close to the bottom where i could still reach everyone else? is there a career in that? is there food and rent in that? is there independence (the good kind, not the i-don’t-need-anyone kind)?

i can’t be picky. and the Scripture says i must give thanks in all circumstances. (yep, all of them. apostle paul don’t play.) and i am doing the best i can to be that way– thankful, prayerful, and joyful in my blessings, for they are many.

i have so many questions: am i really on the right path? if doors aren’t opening for me on this path, should i go to another one, or should i stay on this one? what if getting my degrees was its own path- a path that i have reached the end of- and now i have to go into a totally different direction? can i handle that? am i going to know which way is up?

going back to school– is that really an option? i mean that seems to be the knee-jerk reaction i get. and in a sense, i can see that– it’s something i know i can be successful at, and i love learning, but i have considerations with funding that may make it really hard for me to start on a whole new academic path. i don’t think vocational rehab makes allowances for identity crises, but maybe i should send an inquiry.

to start on a new job path, you need a new education path, and to start on that path, you need money, which you can only get if you have a job. 22 caught. moving on.

part the one-point-one: doing what i love

here are the things i love in my life:
my faith and my relationship with the Trinity
my family and friends
people
interacting with children and hearing what they have to say/trying to imitate their sweet, pure hearts
working at camp
going to cafes and meeting people/ by extension you can guess i love good coffee
nashville
reading
writing
laughing
music (sorry to use a cliché, but i really do mean this: last but *not by any means* least)

now, i have experimented with writing children’s books, and have looked into freelance writing, music blogging, and benefit concerts–but all of those are seeds planted that are going to take some time to grow and take shape.
and i love so many things and so many people that synthesis seems impossible to me.

just another tenet to the crisis: how do i do what i love when i love so much and so many, and when it takes so long to make something truly fit.

part the two: where am i

i am still here– i am still living, breathing, and deeply blessed and loved by G*d. He gives me every moment and i am so glad– but i am obviously feeling a little overwhelmed and uncertain about a lot of things. the professional path is the focus here, but as you can see, that has as much to do with my personal/emotional health as anything.

my confusion extends into relationships: i don’t pretend that life has not changed me in the past year– and i can only hope for the better– we humans are dynamic beings, growing and changing means we are living! but it is confusing– and when life and perspective changes, relationships change. so i am building and rebuilding and foraging the best i can, but it is difficult, and can be a lonesome toil indeed. you can never be sure when one will leave and another will come. you just have to make the best of what you can with the time you have. life is seasonal– and fall is here. so i might get the shivers, but it can still be a time of beauty, of change, of bursting colors.

part the three: mushy stuff
i still miss john, but i see him every day in my prayers. and i smile.

romance? ha! not at the moment-unless you know something i don’t- but life has a way of surprising us. at present, it is just another dimension of my confusion, albeit an entertaining one. i enjoy being single and figuring things and people and feelings out. i am happy with me and with what i have– so when things get rough and lonely, i try to look back to that, and to look Up.

epilogue.

things are alright- but they are not perfect. what i feel is connected to things that are very real. i have decided to accept the quarter-life crisis, and to feel its feelings. it is necessary, in order to see it through to the end, that i experience it in its fullness. i appreciate your prayers, your patience, your advice. your love. that most of all.

thank you for who you are.

end.

*

reinvention.

if it’s good enough for the beatles, prince, madonna, and michael jackson, then it’s good enough for me.

i got three or four more rejections today for jobs- one right after the other it seems. and i had my job placement person tell me that he was not sure what to do anymore. comforting, right?

but in the course of our conversation, teaching came up. several expressions of teaching, in fact:

substitute teaching
tutoring
getting a special type of certification for teaching using existing background and credits

i can see myself teaching. i mean, i love to learn and i love to help others– those are the two fundamental ingredients for making a teacher- forget the goofy sweaters… not happening.

the other thing that has come up after a discussion with my stepdad is going back to school to get a doctorate. now i have up-to-this-point been no less than repulsed by the idea of going back to school for a third time. but aside from the fact i know it is something i am comfortable doing, there’s also the added incentive of the fact that schools often pay the student’s tuition for the doctoral program, give them stipends and additional aid for living expenses, and in some cases, even provide them with health insurance. seems appealing to someone with no prospect of substantial income and an insatiable desire to reclaim her independence.

but i’m not an easy sell.

these sound like good ideas, good opportunities. but it’s not easy to accept having to re-form your identity, your life, your personal and professional goals– after being dedicated to one plan and one mission for years. i have loved working with nonprofits and serving others in a way that i’m not sure i could love any other professional pursuit. and i have dedicated years of my life within and without academia doing just that. to realize that i have failed realizing the goal of all my efforts time and time again is a humbling and painful feeling.

but it is becoming more and more obvious to me that i need to try another path- that this path, for whatever incomprehensible reason, may have reached its end.

that acceptance only appears to be “the tough part”, but that is only the tip of the iceberg. having claimed my failure, i must now adjust my entire approach. i must figure out what other passions and goals might resonate with me– what skills i could best use to reach those goals that i may never have connected with before. and in all that thinking, i have to come to grips with the fact that it may take years before i reach whatever new goal i decide to pursue (and the cynic within me can’t help but say, “who’s to say that you won’t have to go to school a fourth time? the job market could be worse by then- whatever goal you may have set for yourself may be obsolete and irrelevant by then.”)

so what is in order for me now? soul searching– plumbing the untouched parts, shining a light into the dark, cold nooks, finding new sources of heat and illumination. reinventing the wheel, finding a new axis on which to rest and turn with the world and the leaves.

i would appreciate your prayers, your love, and your grace during this time.

thanks for who you are.

——

“can’t you see that when i find you i’ll find me?” – joshua radin

the Messengers: Chapter 3

Three

Sarah looked at her neighbor. John was staring at his hands, his eyes were open wide. She had passed him countless times in the hall, at the mailbox, in front of the building, seeing him multiple times a day. Turns out you could see someone a lot before you took the trouble to look at him. He said nothing. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed since they looked at the second envelope. Finally, he spoke up.

The thunder seemed to rock the building

“Better grab the flashlights, the power goes out if you sneeze in this place,” he smirked, and his features seemed to ease a little. He left the living room for a moment and returned with two flashlights, putting them on the table next to the envelopes with care, as if he was going to wake one of them from its slumber.

He cleared his throat, “You should take off your shoes, at least. The rate we’re going, we could be here a while.”

Sarah thanked him with a half smile and slipped off her shoes.  Setting them carefully by the door, she said,”What should we do?”

“I’d open it,” he said, “if it was just me.”

“How can you be sure that something awful wouldn’t happen?”

“You can’t. Then again, you can’t be sure something awful won’t happen when you get in a cab or go to work, or whatever.”

“But I don’t like it. Something about it feels wrong; scary.”

“Yeah,” he had to agree with her there, “Yeah it is scary”.

John continued, his voice rising and quickening with his pulse, “The thing is, how did we both get the same envelope? And how did you just ‘know’ to come to me? I mean, how can you explain that?”

Sarah’s face was very serious, “I can’t. You can’t. Whatever it is we’ve found ourselves in, it’s bigger than we are.”

Thunder rattled the building. There was a flash, and the lights went out in a blink.

John switched on his flashlight, “You okay? Here’s your light.”

Sarah’s face was illumined by the harsh beam. Her hair fell across her forehead and hid part of her right eye. Her lips were pursed. John could tell she was trying hard not to appear afraid, as he was.

“I’m fine,” she said, with the same automatic ‘fine’ you give a stranger who asks how you are when you have had the worst day you could remember. She forced herself to smile. John smiled as well in an attempt to reassure her. Her shoulders relaxed a little.

“Well,” he said after a moment, “What’s it going to be? Open the creepy letter from who-knows-where or forget about the whole thing and go back to our days off?”

“I don’t know,” Sarah was hesitant, “I mean, it is scary, but there has to be a reason we both have one at the same time, and that they appear to be the same.”

“Yeah,” John said, “Exactly. Besides, odds are this is the most interesting thing that will happen to me today. So I might as well have a look at it. And if it’s not for me, then, just forget about it and go about my business.”

“Right,” she said, “Okay, we’ll open them at the same time.”

“Okay,” John looked her in the eye, “Ready?”

“Ready,” Sarah said.

John propped up one of the flashlights and its light formed a narrow funnel between them, just wide enough for them to read the contents of their envelopes, and just bright enough for each of them to see the features of the other. Sarah had set the other one in front of her on the floor, and it cast its light on the kitchen island.

The room fell silent other than the tearing of paper. The storm, though still a presence outside, seemed to have obliged them. The rain fell in hushed tones; the thunder seemed to rumble from somewhere more distant for the moment.

In each envelope was a single, folded piece of paper. Their eyes met. They couldn’t seem to find words of readiness, so they nodded to one another, watching each other’s fingers unfold the pages they held.

John said, just above a whisper, “Now we’ll read them. Both of us.”

He heard Sarah take a sharp breath in as she nodded. Tears, seeming to form as he watched, magnified her eyes.

“Sarah,” he said, “I’m sorry. We don’t have to do this.”

She blinked and the tears seeped out.

“No,” she answered with resolution, “I’m ready. I’m just afraid.”

“It’s okay, I am, too.” His own admission surprised him.

“Alright,” John said, “Here we go. Now or never.”

He made an attempt to smile at her in a way that might be reassuring. She was not crying anymore. She pulled the corner of her mouth into a smile and said, “Okay”.

John and Sarah felt a crystalline sense of awareness: of the moment, of the dark, still room, of one another. There was a deep breath that seemed to come from both of them, and their eyes shifted down to the pages now facing each of them.

Together they read:

We are the messengers.

We have been silenced.

Give us back our voices.

You alone can hear them.

They are calling to you.

Answer them.

Answer them.

Answer them.

In a single moment, the sky seemed to burst into light and dark and there was no more apartment, no more city, no more day or night. John called Sarah’s name. He heard nothing and felt only earth moving and time bending. In that single second, everything seemed to split and everything came together. He could not be sure whether they were alive or dead. Sarah could see nothing but colors and light. They seemed to be plunging, falling toward nothing that she knew or understood. But her hand was in his.

the Messengers (a not-so-short story) Chapters 1-2

The Messengers

“Do I dare
Disturb the universe?”-
e.e. Cummings

ONE.

Autumn showed up early, and so did the bills. Taking those and some home furnishing coupons in his free hand, and a sip from the coffee mug in his occupied one, John shivered and went back upstairs.

Calling in sick was a good idea, and so was setting the bills aside to thumb through the junk mail, which was doing its best to seduce him with promises of little to no interest. Ironic, he thought. He was about to pour another cup of his favorite blend when he spotted something: the corner of a small, unremarkable envelope, trapped under a pile of loud colors and cellophane. He brushed aside the other mail clamoring for his attention and picked it up. On the outside of the envelope was written:

DO NOT OPEN
“What the—?”
Knock, Knock.
John seemed to be stuck to the armchair. His breathing was shallow and nearly still.
His eyes moved to the envelope. Something compelled him to slip it into his jeans pocket.
Knock, knock, knock.
“John, are you there?” a female voice came from the other side.
He exhaled slowly. What was wrong with him? Did he think his boss had somehow found out he was healthy as a horse and simply hated his job? His better judgment spoke up: Get yourself together, man.
“Yeah,” he fiddled his hair around in his hands, “Sorry, coming.”
He opened the door.
It was Sarah, his neighbor from across the hall. Dressed for work, she would have been crisp and intimidating any other morning. But now, clutching her coffee tumbler, she looked unsettled, smaller somehow.
“Morning,” she tried to shine up her tone, “May I come in?”
“Of course,” he said.
Sarah stepped in and closed the door, locking it behind her.
John looked at her a moment; it was something about her eyes. They looked frightened. He decided to ignore that in favor of courtesy, offering her more coffee.
“No, thanks, I’m good, still have some left,” she smiled nervously, sitting down on the couch.
John returned to the armchair across from her. He felt a pang of shame for the condition of his coffee table and fumbled around, shifting his stack of magazines and mail to another corner.
“Sorry,” he looked to the floor, “It’s awful.”
She smiled, “It’s cool, mine’s no better.”
He made a sound of polite concession, which was followed by the obligatory awkward silence.
“Listen,” she said, “I know we don’t really talk, but for some reason, I felt like I had to tell you about this”.
Reaching into her back pocket, Sarah hesitated a moment and placed what was in her hand on the table in front of her. A small envelope, identical to the one in John’s own pocket: plain other than a single inscription. It was written by the same hand as the words on his envelope, but Sarah’s message was different. It only said this:

OPEN

“Oh God!” she gasped
He started, “What is it?”
Sarah said slowly, as if each syllable was afraid to come out, “When I put it in my pocket to show you, it said ‘Do Not Open’,” the color had drained away from her cheeks, “I swear,” her voice trailed off, and John noticed she was trembling.

John’s eyes widened and he could feel sweat pricking his brow. Not possible.

Saying nothing, he slowly pulled out his own envelope and placed it next to hers. Keeping it underneath his hand, John kept his eyes closed a moment and inhaled deeply, lifting his fingers from the top of the envelope as if they were now filled with lead. Sarah clasped her hand over her mouth. Everything inside him, even the flow of his blood, seemed to stop,
“Mine changed, too,” were the only words he could seem to get out. The words ‘Do Not’ had vanished completely, and only ‘Open’ remained.

The silence seemed to last forever. Outside the wind jarred the trees, and they cast their leaves to the ground in heaps. The sky darkened and thunder rumbled low and deep in the distance. A storm was coming.

Two

Sun seeped in through the window; the only window. It was many feet above her, and she strained her neck, trying to discern a cloud, trying to read the weather by the solitary beam of light. Taking a sharpened, white rock, she made a hash mark on the brown stone wall. By now she had lost count; it was pure habit. Like everything else in her life for as long as she can remember, her system of timekeeping was consistent, predictable to an unforgiving degree; each repeated motion absolutely hollow, and marked by a longing that was so similar to hunger she could not often discern the difference. It didn’t matter anyway: she ate when it was she was told to eat. She was hungry when she was told to be hungry. She was happy when it was ordered of her.

She heard the huge latch being lifted. That was her cue. She put on the cloak, pulling the hood over her head. The door was swung open and a guard entered. He approached her, but her eyes remained averted as she extended her hands. The guard clasped the irons around her wrists. She then stood and parted her feet, in order that he may add a matching pair to her ankles before turning to lead her out into the hall.

The floor was cold on her bare feet, even though they were calloused and numb. She sighed, exhaling with care. If her sigh was too deep, the guards would often strike her, cursing her for her contempt and ingratitude. She followed the guard, who remained a few paces in front of her. She was repulsed by her own smell and did not wonder why others kept their distance.

She had learned to keep her eyes to the floor unless addressed or otherwise given permission. She was forced to ignore the faint cries of agony and despair coming from the other cells, lest she be labeled a conspirator. She had not ever actually seen the face of another prisoner. Those in charge were very careful to keep them all separate. Human contact was a luxury to which they were not privy.

They had reached the stairwell. Although it didn’t seem possible that they could get further away from the light of day, they descended. The stairs were steep and formed into a spiral; torches mounted on the wall their only light. They were reaching the bottom and her eyes moved to one of the flickering flames. In that moment, it seemed she could hear someone calling her by a name she could not discern or remember; she had not been called by a name for a long time. She could see herself around a table, eating and drinking, a blaze crackling in the fireplace; no one’s plate or goblet was ever empty. In that moment she closed her eyes. And her foot slipped.

She yelped, not knowing how far she would fall, she braced herself as best she could. But she felt no pain. Instead she felt arms around her. She opened her eyes to the guard, who had whipped around and caught her to keep her from smacking her face on the cold, jagged stairs. Her eyes widened.

“Are you alright?” he asked.
“Yes, “ she answered, her voice was shaky and afraid.
They were right at the bottom. She had stumbled on the last step. The guard looked at her, her hood was down and her fiery red hair was wild and disheveled. Her eyes were blue and frightened. They were only comfortable when focused on the sea of stones beneath her feet.

The guard cleared his throat. Stepping back in front of her, he opened the only door in that room. They entered into a much larger room: it was square and dank; the smell of blood mingled with the stench left by countless unwashed prisoners. The guard took his place in the corner, watching with feigned disinterest.

“Do you renounce your crimes?” a male voice, devoid of emotion, addressed her.
“I do not,” she answered, her voice calm.
“Very well,” came the voice.
With one fell swoop, she was knocked to the ground. Whether or not she cried out, she did not know. But she felt the familiar sting and burn of torn skin, and the warmth of blood rising from inside of her as it dripped on the floor. The guard remained silent.

The figure who had been speaking to her stepped from the shadows. Although he was considerably older than the prisoner, his exact age was indeterminable. He had black hair, flecked with grey. His eyes were green and empty. He drew from his side a leather whip and lashed her with all his might five times across the back. Blood began to pool. Though the pain was indescribable, she did her best to let her tears fall in silence.

The man with the whip spat on her. He handed the whip, still warm from his own grasp, to the guard, who he had motioned to join him behind the prisoner.

“Give her ten more, then take her back,” he said.

The guard flicked his gaze down as a gesture of understanding. The man with the green eyes left the room and let the door slam shut. The guard listened for the sound of his footsteps to fade, but there were no footsteps. The guard knew the man with the green eyes was waiting outside to make sure he carried out the order before he left them completely alone.

He drew the whip. She drew her breath in and held it tight, preparing for the searing pain of the next blow. She cried out when she heard the whip crack, but felt nothing. He had missed. Not daring to look up, she remained on her knees, her face downcast. He would not make the same mistake again. She heard him rear back. The whip cracked again, but she felt nothing. Impossible. As the footsteps of the man with the green eyes trailed off, the guard missed his mark 8 more times.

He came around to the other side of her. He knelt down. She winced under the touch of his hands as they helped bring her to her feet. She was covered in blood, it mingled with her tears on her battered face. She tried to stand, but the weight of the irons was too much after the beating. She fainted, but for the second time that day, her fall was broken.

She woke in her cell, without her irons; next to her was a plate of fresh fruit and a cup of cold, clean water.

North to L-4

Above ground

Below

Nights and neighborhoods

Flash by

And we’re surrounded

Covered in rain

The city has gulped us

Deep down

Into its grimy belly

But your eyes

Still shine

Like little blue buttons

Push push push

People shove and shuffle by

And I consider

Where those canvas shoes

May carry you

Pleasantries squeeze out

Of my bashful mouth

Like rushed mothers

Through sliding doors

Wondering where to go next

Your smile wanders around your face

Aimless

Scurrying through words

We teeter a moment

In a common place

My stomach lurches

Everything stops

Rushing out into the world

I leave your name behind

With handbags

And ticket stubs

I turn

You go

We remain in transit.

© Beth Hopkins 17 August 2009

7 Habits of Highly Outgoing People

7 Habits of Highly Outgoing People

For as long as I can remember, I have been a devout practitioner of Extraversionism, or what has been called in some cultures Outgoingism {I try to be culturally sensitive given my sociological background}.

You know the old saying. “Give a man a fish, but only if he isn’t allergic”, or whatever. Well, I would love to give you a fish, but

Be outgoing. It’s cute.

I have none. Instead, I have decided to impart some knowledge for all the inquirers that have stepped on to the path to En-Outgoing-Ment

 

I can only muster so much originality in one day, so I have chosen to borrow (without intention of returning) the format of some book I heard about one time.  On we go.

1. Look at people.

They won’t bite. Probably. A little eye contact can go a long way with someone. Eye contact lets people know you are aware of them. Done tactfully, it forms a connection with someone before the burden of conversation is introduced. Just be careful not to get overzealous and give some poor soul the Creepy Staredown.

2.  Smile at people.

You know what they say. It takes fewer muscles to smile than it does to frown. So, relax, man, and let the person have a little beam of your inner light. If I were a gambling man (0 for 2 there, but it’s a metaphor, so just go with it), I’d venture to say that you have a good chance of making someone’s day.

 3. Start a conversation.

You may be tempted to stop reading here, but the true Extraversionist is also a Conversationalist. Not to be confused with a babbling idiot, or an obnoxious moron, the conversationalist, like an artist, is someone comfortable in his or her medium: speech. You don’t have to be a verbal Monet. Every little speck of your discourse does not have to fit perfectly alongside the others. Remember, Jackson Pollock was just as brilliant, and his art is chaos. The key is comfort. Don’t rush the conversation. If you feel very uncomfortable addressing others, don’t force yourself to recite the Preamble in front of them.  

However, nobody likes a cop out. Except maybe…cops…. Unless they cop in. Does anyone know? But I digress. To make sure you cop neither out nor in, here are two helpful hints:

1. Compliment them: This is an unobtrusive but positive way to start a conversation. But stick to stuff like “Cool shoes” or “I like your shirt, I saw that band on the same tour”. Once you get into, “I could stare into your crystalline eyes as long I live”, things may start to go south.

2. Keep it simple: Notice I didn’t say, “carry on a conversation”. If that happens, great. If not, that’s okay. Just saying “Hello”, when brought together with Steps 1 and 2, is more than most do, (unfortunately), and it will be appreciated.

4. Don’t Bite the Hand that Feeds You.

We Southerners got this maxim right. It does not pay to be rude to or ignore those serving you food and beverage. And the “forced interaction” of ordering food, drinks, or coffee means that you have a chance to become more attuned to your inner extrovert. Many of the sweetest people I’ve met are the ones earning $2.13 an hour, so make sure you don’t count them out of your day. An extra hello may earn you a little more foam on that latte. And don’t forget to tip!

5. Ask Questions. Asking questions is great practice because it helps you to be outgoing without dominating the conversation. You have the chance to initiate, but your friends are still able to contribute (and you are afforded the distinct pleasure of learning more about them). Be careful that you actually allow them to answer the question before you keep on truckin’. The easiest way to start is by asking people about themselves. It is easiest to talk about what you know. Current events and music are two other areas with a lot of potential. Politics? Religion? Go for it.

6. Go in for the high-five. Life is a contact sport. Psychologists say that we need 10 meaningful touches a day to be in our right mind. This doesn’t mean a do-si-do or a Casablanca kiss with the person across from you on the bus is a good idea, necessarily. It does mean, however, that a little bit of physical connection not only takes your extroversionism to the next level; it shows presence. Just like smiling and making eye contact, it lets the person know you are conscious of him or her. I’m a hugger. But I recognize that not everyone would hug a lamppost when given a few moments to get to know it. So for the rest of you, I suggest little things first: a pat on the back, the classic high-five, or a dance-off.

7. Empathize. I seem to have saved the best tip for last. I know it’s cliché, but so are lists of 7 habits, so we might as well keep the theme going. Empathy is one of the driving forces for the genuine outgoingist. Anyone can talk your ear off or give you a spontaneous belly bump. but it takes empathy to truly engage someone, if only for a short amount of time. Why? Think about it. Eye contact and smiles probably make you smile. Questions involve you in a chat. And everyone loves a high-five. You know you do. So if all those things are bright points in your day, think of your Extraversion in terms of the effect your positive vibes will have on another human being. It will put the momentary discomfort and awkwardness in perspective. And it may make your inquiries about the weather a little more heartfelt.

So there you have it, young grasshoppers. 7 steps in the right direction for the aspiring extroversionists and fledgling outgoingists. I wish you the best as you keep on going- to the outmost. And I just love your shoes! Where did you get those?

It’s Not Me, It’s You

Having received an auspicious suffix about 7 months ago, {M.A., that is}, from a wonderful educational institution, I must confess I am in an entirely different place than I’d planned to be by now: still living at home, and still looking for a full-time permanent job. I seemed to have glided across the graduation stage on a cloud of bliss only to smack face-first into a brick wall. I’ve spent the ensuing weeks reeling from the hit: emotionally concussed, bewildered, and waiting for a Good Samaritan to take me by the hand and make sure I get some ice for that.

In the meantime, I’m spinning around in circles, watching the stars and cartoon birdies whirl round my head.

As the rejection letters amass on my nightstand, I sift through them and think. “Why does this seem so familiar? Why do I feel so prepared to handle all this?” Then it dawns on me, I’ve been there, done that. I’ve heard it all before. I’ve had years of training that has prepared me well for the harsh realities of a recession-era job market.

I’m a professional.

Single.

There’s a reason why there’s something called a Bachelor’s Degree. It takes so much emotional and mental exertion to remain one that everyone who does so deserves a certification of some kind; formal recognition of his or her achievement is in order. And after years of gaining such valuable experience, I’ve noticed that behaviorally, my potential suitors and my potential employers are very alike. And I don’t mean they both look forward to spending all their money on me.

Here are just a few of the similarities I’ve discovered:

Dress and appearance is important and can make or break a situation. Don’t be deceived. It’s not okay to show up for a job interview in your pajamas, and it’s not okay to show up on a first date with a fanny pack. While we’re at it, let’s promise each other never to show up anywhere with a fanny pack. Ever.

There are qualifications that must be met. There are pros and cons. There are deal breakers. Sometimes they are sensible. Sometimes they are arbitrary. But in either situation, they are always there. If you meet them, you are eligible for further consideration. If not, thank you for your time and we wish you the best of luck in your future endeavors.

There is lots of initial enthusiasm. You’ll hear things like:

“Thank you so much for coming in today. We were very impressed by your resume.”

“I am so glad I ran into you. We have to hang out soon!”

“We look forward to getting to know you better.”

“This has been great and I’d love to do this again.”

Although this sounds great, don’t get too excited. Or if you do allow yourself to get excited, always keep the next similarities in your mind.

What is said and what is meant are often two completely different, sometimes opposite, things. Just like when generals and colonels use terms like “friendly fire” and “collateral damage”, there is more being said than there appears to be at first glance. You almost always have to do some digging to find the deeper (actual) meaning of certain words (and certain silences). Confused yet? If not, allow me to help you further. Let’s consider some examples:

Your employer says: “We are so glad you are considering joining our team.”

Your employer means: “We say this to everyone and do not know enough about you to know if that is the truth or not.”

Your suitor says: “I’d better be getting home, I have to get up early for work tomorrow.”

Your suitor means: “I’d better be getting home, to be as far away from you as possible.”

Your employer says: “That is an interesting answer.”

Your employer means: “That is the wrong answer.”

Your suitor says: “That is an interesting dress.”

Your suitor means: “That is an ugly dress.”

Your suitor says: “It’s not you, it’s me.”

Your suitor means: “It’s not me, it’s you.”

The final example is applicable to both groups and very common, therefore must be addressed here.

What is said: “I (or we) will call you.”

What is meant: “This is goodbye forever.”

There will be flakes. Promises will be made with no intention of being kept. Communication will break down. You will find yourself at square one. There is simply too much evidence to support this to find it untrue. I came this close just now to using Scientific Method metaphors. I should get out more.

Sometimes the timing is just off. There are those moments in life when everything is right except the time. People (or organizations) may in fact really like you, but they may just be unprepared for the commitment. This is often because of any or all of the following: a lack of financial stability, uncertainty about the future, or the number of other possible options available.

You can tell when it is (or is not) going to work. You may know when the boss says “How often are you available on Saturday mornings?” or when someone looks at you with complete disbelief and whispers “Really? I hate black eyed peas, too!” before he or she smiles and looks sheepishly at the floor. Either way, you’ll know how good of a fit the situation is (or isn’t) for you early on.

The right one is out there. No, really.  At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

This list stopped at a mere eight, but there are many more parallels between the person you may be sharing a cubicle with and the person you may be sharing a surname with. Along with the experiences inherent in searching for a job (or for another), the lessons learned while doing so also have many common threads:

It is of paramount importance to maintain a sense of humor (however dark) in what might otherwise be an utterly bleak situation.

Practical yet sassy shoes are a necessity.

There are about a bajillion “no’s” for every “yes”. {Or a bajillion “frogs” for every “prince”}.

Nothing eases the pain of rejection like prayer, music, retail therapy, and a friend who will join you in heaping verbal abuses on the perpetrators. You should administer Ben & Jerry’s liberally as often as necessary to the rejectee and to his or her support system.

I hate to break it to you, but it’s a rough world in which to be single. Or unemployed. And for those of you dealing with both simultaneously, don’t be surprised when you have to move to a second pint of Cherry Garcia. No one will judge you. It’s for medicinal purposes. Hang in there. You’re not alone. You have at least one commiserate, uploading her resume with one hand, getting a third scoop with the other. Here’s to us. Let’s keep up the good work.

Here’s Looking at Us

I have started this entry many times. The mountains were big? The hotel was haunted? The pad thai was reasonably priced for the portion size? One of the greatest ironies in the life of a writer is that you spend so much time struggling to attach words and meanings, often in situations where words fail. And here I am grasping straws, herding cats, chasing wind. I am against cruel and unusual punishment, and in this I feel like a hypocrite by attempting to force my ideas into the confines of language.

There is no way to explain being thousands of feet in the air while feeling perfectly centered and grounded. There is no way to explain becoming friends with your family, and family with your friends. There is no way to explain a raspberry lemonade dark chocolate and the things it does to your senses when coupled with a good, strong latte. There is no way to explain what the first hug in years feels like.

Sometimes, you just have to let things fly. Put down the notebook and let your senses take over. That is what the weekend was for me, a weekend of presence. I wasn’t along for the ride, I wasn’t checking things off an itinerary (unless our anti-itinerary counts!) 

I was simply, completely there; simultaneously looking and seeing, touching and feeling, hearing and understanding.

Artists have a concept called negative space. Not an area where you say bad things and air grievances. More like context of your work of art. It is the area that doesn’t appear to be “in use”, but has the important role of putting the focus of the work into perspective.

For me, much of  the beauty of my weekend in Denver was in its negative space. It was what we didn’t do and didn’t say that made the trip. No worry, no schedule, no need to fill silence with words, no sense of preoccupation. No normal restaurant experiences.

To have the distance removed between two people for a while leaves room for the time itself to pass, and for each moment experienced and savored in its entirety. You’re not on the phone, or looking through a chat window. You are face to face with one another. You are giving the adventure your undivided attention. Such was Denver and so will be its memories, colored by laughter and clouds.

the Lovers, the Dreamers, and Me?

Occasionally someone comes into our lives that inspires us to be better, to do more, to think differently. Most people call someone like this a “hero”. Most of the time, this someone is a close relative, a friend, an athlete, a religious or political figure, etcetera.

Occasionally that someone is a small, talking frog who plays the banjo, sings, and rides a bicycle.

This is one of those blogs about one of those times. A child of the 80s, I was raised on Sesame Street and the Muppets in their Golden Years, when their best friend Jim Henson was still living. {He, a hero of mine, certainly, died in 1990; coincidentally the same year the world lost another brilliant mind and creative genius, Roald Dahl.} 

I loved them from as early as I can remember, and still love them. Most kids put away the movies and songs for more grown up things as they get older. But I must have slipped through the cracks, because the older I get, the more I appreciate them.

Kermit, I admire specifically because he is the embodiment of idealism with a very human dose of neuroses. He is intelligent, but retains his childlike innocence and wonder about the world and the living things in it. He is always there for his friends and values the opinions and ideas of children. He is happy. He is a free spirit. And he sings beautifully. He can get a little over-emotional, but always comes around in the end.

Undoubtedly, Kermit reflects his friend and mentor, Jim. The two of them have managed to impact the lives of millions of children who have become millions of grown-ups, who have, in turn, introduced their own children to the wonderful world of the little green frog with the little green collar {No one knows why he wears it!}. As someone who greatly admires and respects children, and has worked with and interacted with many of them already, that kind of an impact inspires me.  

So, Kermit, if you like to blog {I’m guessing you do, I mean, it rhymes with frog…}, perhaps you’ll run across my little tribute. Thanks for reminding me over and over that the world really can and will embrace an optimist with a childlike heart. If you need a duet partner, you know who to call.

Today I recommend:

Thinking outside of the box and asking yourself:

• If my hero didn’t have to be a person, who would it be and why?

This entry has been brought to you by the letter “K”.

don’t hate, consolidate

Welcome to a new era, where I update my WordPress. Although I write in the same language here as the other avenues I use, (and probably have even fewer readers), I am appeased by the fact that you can read this without having to minimize a Jonas Brothers video in your sidebar. I will be looking for ways to consolidate the MySpace Blog with In Case of Fire, some never-before-seen writing from personal journals, and the poetry and musings posted on Facebook. 

Today is a gorgeous, scorching day here in Hipville, where I have acquired an honorary sort of dual citizenship. I am surrounded by people gazing longingly into the faces of their sparkling Apple computers, signing away their lives to record companies and label execs, looking absentmindedly at passing traffic, and shyly avoiding eye contact with attractive, mysterious strangers. I am performing an undisclosed combination thereof, but not offering sufficient focus to any one of them in a way that might garner results, thanks to the copious amounts of caffeine in my daily double espresso.

This weekend will be magnanimous. I am jet-setting to Denver , Colorado, where I am meeting up with the intrepid Noam, my partner in humor and misadventure, for a few days of hijinks that include, at bare minimum, a chocolate factory and a haunted hotel. 

It will be my last tango with freedom before (re)entering the 9 to 5 universe (an alternate one, I’m convinced). This will be version 2.0 of an internship I had before I went to graduate school. This time, I will no longer be a  lowly part-time intern, but a more-powerful-to-a-negligible-degree-if-at-all full-time intern. I love the people I work with in this office and the work the office does. So although the schedule will take some getting used to, I am so glad to have a regular income drawing nearer to realization. 

The other thing that makes this a laudable group of people to work with is that they are offering me this position in the interim. In other words, they are allowing me to work, and giving me the freedom (encouraging me, at that) to move on to permanent full-time employment. And that elusive permanent full-time employment is looming. Since it is not 100% certain, I won’t disclose it to the Internet, even though I know there are only a few people that use the newfangled thing anyway. I will leave you and all the other web-heads in suspense.

Tune in for more. Tell your friends. Even the people you don’t like. It’s a nice gesture.

Today, I recommend:

• An iced latte (you get what you pay for, I promise).
• A book of short stories, such as Umbrella Man, a collection of stories by my favorite, Roald Dahl 
• Light-hearted  poppy music (don’t worry, it will not significantly impair brain function– in moderation

the home stretch

School is almost over. I mean, really over. Like I will be done with school for all eternity in about 6 weeks. I cannot believe it. I still have so much to do. Too much to even contain in the vast void of the Internet. Piles and piles of stuff to be read and written and done and sent and not enough time or motivation or smarties inside of me to get it all done. At least that’s how it feels. The closest thing I can compare it to is the breaks going out at the top of a hill {bear with me even though I don’t drive}. You keep going faster and faster and it seems like there’s nothing to be done until you crash into a bazillion pieces at the bottom. So you hold your breath and hang on for dear life and hope you live through your epic collision with reality without having a steering wheel as a permanent appendage.

The thing about me is that I seem to perpetually get myself into academic rough spots. Not just because I procrastinate, which I do, but because I get overwhelmed. Yet, and here’s the interesting part, not only do I seem to work well, if not better, under pressure, but I have never been in a situation where I haven’t gotten everything done. So why do I worry so much? I’ve been here before, right? The Lord has gotten me through every other imaginable academic hurdle. There’s a great gospel song that says something like “I know He didn’t bring me this far to leave me”…and He didn’t. I’ve got to remember that.

In case I needed more evidence that the (near) impossible can happen, a more unified America than I have seen in a while elected a president of color in the same lifetime of millions of people who grew up victims of racism, prejudice, and segregation. Our president-elect represents hope and optimism, to be sure. But he has also proven to be forthright and proactive when faced with some pretty intense economic hurdles, not to mention international conflict and a high unemployment rate. He isn’t perfect (and isn’t claiming to be), but he is so much of what we seem to need right now. Just days after the election, he has already laid out an economic plan and has begun assembling a Cabinet, while meeting with the current administration to strategize for his transition. 

I was thrilled Tuesday night, and my excitement has continued as I think about the things that I’m hoping will happen for our country. Big things. And they’re getting closer, at least for the “whole”. I’m hoping that they’re around the corner for me, too.