Because of fear.
Because of fear what chances did I not take for fear of the outcome?
Because of fear I regret more what I haven't done more than the things I've actually done.
It's not about creating a list of regrets, of fears. Instead, it's the idea of what I won't do because of fear and how this insidious notion--fear--has reigned me in. Influenced my decisions not to take chances, to close doors, so to speak.
Because of fear.
How much time have I wasted? How many opportunities squandered? How much power have I invested in fear instead of love?
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Friday, September 16, 2011
My first job out of college
So, like, you know how you have these Big Dreams when you graduate college. You think you can conquer the world with your Big Ideas and your Big Plans and then reality sets in way too quick. Suddenly, you're in need of a deposit for an apartment and the fridge in said apartment is empty so you need money for food. And gas. And car insurance. And beer. And wine. When in need of money, get a JOB.
After we graduated college, Joseph and I had an agreement that the other would follow whoever between us got a job first. In our case, Joseph got a job counseling middle schoolers at risk of failing (or dropping out, which is sad really when you think about it. An eleven year old already to drop out of school, to give up. At eleven. But that's another story). Joseph's brand spanking new counseling job was in Elkton, MD, which in the mid-1990s was podunk red neck town. Just like the podunk red neck town of Winfield where I grew up. At the time, I was very eager to leave that all behind. Maybe live in a place that didn't have so many large, jacked up four wheel drive trucks splattered with mud. But there you go. Here we are moving to Elkton, podunk, red neck town USA.
Armed with my Bachelors of Science degree in English with a minor in writing, I'm ready to take on the world. The only job I manage to find is a temp job for $8.00 an hour at a bank in the consumer finance division. You'll never guess what I did with my day at said consumer finance division of major corporate bank: I alphabetized documents. Yes, you read that right, dear gentle reader, I alphabetized documents for about 6 hours a day. Seriously. I was actually told that because I had an English degree that I would be especially good at alphabetizing, that I would have a real grasp of that big ol' alphabet.
Being the enterprising, ambitious young woman that I am, I asked my manager for additional assignments because, you know, I feel that I can do more than just alphabetizing. I am capable of so much more! My manager liked my initiative and within months, I earned a permanent position within the department doing more, solving problems, doing things. Important Things. For example, one bright, sunny morning I walk into said corporate finance division of major corporate bank, and I'm told by my manager and his boss that the bank "misplaced" about one million dollars overnight, and would you be part of the team to find that million dollars please?
Um, sure, I guess.
Now, keep in mind that the bank didn't actually lose one million dollars the way you lose your left sock in the dryer. All the transactions were electronic, so there was just a glitch in the software (or so they claimed) which once corrected, the money would be found. Viola. I spent the day working with two others tracking down the missing money, fixing glitches, reassuring our clients that no, we didn't actually lose the money, we'll have it resolved by the next business day. So much better than alphabetizing, right?
Wrong. Here's the thing, dear gentle reader. I hated that J.O.B. Despised it. It was so unimaginative. So not creative. I worked in a department of eight people. One of those eight people was the manager. Two others were supervisors. There was a rule about how many personal photographs I could have at my cubby desk. (No more than two.) There was a rule about how many sticky note reminders I could leave on my desk at the end of the day. (No more than two.) Although I didn't have to ask permission to use the bathroom, I did have to make a general announcement just in case someone else in our department was thinking the same thing and possibly risk having two people in the bathroom at the same time.
So I hated this JOB as you can imagine. On my drive home, typically twenty minutes or so, I would scream. At the top of my lungs. Scream like an ax murderer was chasing me. I would cry. As if my dog just died kind of cry.
Here's the thing, though. I couldn't tell you why I reacted that way beyond a vague explanation that I didn't like my job. I couldn't articulate that I found the job stifling, impossibly oppressive with all the rules about photographs and sticky notes, the micromanaging. (Seriously. Was it necessary to have a manager and two supervisors for a department of eight. Really?) At the time, I could say none of this. And that terrified me. Being a writer, not being able to express myself was soul splintering. I had published credits listed on my resume for God's sake, and all I was capable of doing at the end of the day was scream until my throat felt raw. Then crawl in bed, hiding in shame. Joseph was mystified. I was stupefied into silence.
Eventually, I left that JOB when Joseph got a teaching position at Catsonville HS and we moved back to central Maryland. Despite the move and the change in jobs, the silence remained. The writing silence, I mean. Ten years later at a high school reunion, a former classmate, Carmella, asked me if I was living in a little farmhouse writing novels. I was shocked by her question. I had somehow forgotten that ambition. That desire. I wasn't even anywhere close to that. Joseph and I lived in a suburban apartment. I worked retail. He was teaching. I wrote in my journal periodically. How quickly I let go of my Big Dreams. My Big Ideas. My Big Plans. How sad.
Now, another ten years has slipped away. Forty is on the horizon. It's strange how I can look at my reflection in the mirror and not know the woman staring back at me. Oh, I recognize the features all right, but I don't know the woman. I don't recognize who I allowed myself to become. What do you do when you wake up and realize that your soul has a small, slow leak and that's why you feel like it's never quite filled up.
After we graduated college, Joseph and I had an agreement that the other would follow whoever between us got a job first. In our case, Joseph got a job counseling middle schoolers at risk of failing (or dropping out, which is sad really when you think about it. An eleven year old already to drop out of school, to give up. At eleven. But that's another story). Joseph's brand spanking new counseling job was in Elkton, MD, which in the mid-1990s was podunk red neck town. Just like the podunk red neck town of Winfield where I grew up. At the time, I was very eager to leave that all behind. Maybe live in a place that didn't have so many large, jacked up four wheel drive trucks splattered with mud. But there you go. Here we are moving to Elkton, podunk, red neck town USA.
Armed with my Bachelors of Science degree in English with a minor in writing, I'm ready to take on the world. The only job I manage to find is a temp job for $8.00 an hour at a bank in the consumer finance division. You'll never guess what I did with my day at said consumer finance division of major corporate bank: I alphabetized documents. Yes, you read that right, dear gentle reader, I alphabetized documents for about 6 hours a day. Seriously. I was actually told that because I had an English degree that I would be especially good at alphabetizing, that I would have a real grasp of that big ol' alphabet.
Being the enterprising, ambitious young woman that I am, I asked my manager for additional assignments because, you know, I feel that I can do more than just alphabetizing. I am capable of so much more! My manager liked my initiative and within months, I earned a permanent position within the department doing more, solving problems, doing things. Important Things. For example, one bright, sunny morning I walk into said corporate finance division of major corporate bank, and I'm told by my manager and his boss that the bank "misplaced" about one million dollars overnight, and would you be part of the team to find that million dollars please?
Um, sure, I guess.
Now, keep in mind that the bank didn't actually lose one million dollars the way you lose your left sock in the dryer. All the transactions were electronic, so there was just a glitch in the software (or so they claimed) which once corrected, the money would be found. Viola. I spent the day working with two others tracking down the missing money, fixing glitches, reassuring our clients that no, we didn't actually lose the money, we'll have it resolved by the next business day. So much better than alphabetizing, right?
Wrong. Here's the thing, dear gentle reader. I hated that J.O.B. Despised it. It was so unimaginative. So not creative. I worked in a department of eight people. One of those eight people was the manager. Two others were supervisors. There was a rule about how many personal photographs I could have at my cubby desk. (No more than two.) There was a rule about how many sticky note reminders I could leave on my desk at the end of the day. (No more than two.) Although I didn't have to ask permission to use the bathroom, I did have to make a general announcement just in case someone else in our department was thinking the same thing and possibly risk having two people in the bathroom at the same time.
So I hated this JOB as you can imagine. On my drive home, typically twenty minutes or so, I would scream. At the top of my lungs. Scream like an ax murderer was chasing me. I would cry. As if my dog just died kind of cry.
Here's the thing, though. I couldn't tell you why I reacted that way beyond a vague explanation that I didn't like my job. I couldn't articulate that I found the job stifling, impossibly oppressive with all the rules about photographs and sticky notes, the micromanaging. (Seriously. Was it necessary to have a manager and two supervisors for a department of eight. Really?) At the time, I could say none of this. And that terrified me. Being a writer, not being able to express myself was soul splintering. I had published credits listed on my resume for God's sake, and all I was capable of doing at the end of the day was scream until my throat felt raw. Then crawl in bed, hiding in shame. Joseph was mystified. I was stupefied into silence.
Eventually, I left that JOB when Joseph got a teaching position at Catsonville HS and we moved back to central Maryland. Despite the move and the change in jobs, the silence remained. The writing silence, I mean. Ten years later at a high school reunion, a former classmate, Carmella, asked me if I was living in a little farmhouse writing novels. I was shocked by her question. I had somehow forgotten that ambition. That desire. I wasn't even anywhere close to that. Joseph and I lived in a suburban apartment. I worked retail. He was teaching. I wrote in my journal periodically. How quickly I let go of my Big Dreams. My Big Ideas. My Big Plans. How sad.
Now, another ten years has slipped away. Forty is on the horizon. It's strange how I can look at my reflection in the mirror and not know the woman staring back at me. Oh, I recognize the features all right, but I don't know the woman. I don't recognize who I allowed myself to become. What do you do when you wake up and realize that your soul has a small, slow leak and that's why you feel like it's never quite filled up.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Why I hate kindergarten.
This was my life pre-kindergarten: Sleep in until 8:30 AM with the boys snuggled around me. We linger over breakfast. Play. Maybe watch some TV. I read the newspaper. 11:00 AM rolls around and oh yeah, I guess we should get dressed and see about walking the dog. Do you want to go to the park, I ask the boys. Maybe spend two hours at the playground. Maybe go to the library. Eat lunch when our stomachs growl with hunger, not when a clock dictates that it's lunch time.
This is my life after kindergarten: awake at 7am. (We all know I am notoriously grumpy for the first 20 to 30 minutes after I wake up. I need time for the grogginess to dissipate.) Practically hog tie Elias and force feed him breakfast. Everyone dressed, teeth brushed, hair combed, lunch packed including morning snack, don't forget the backpack and out the door by 8:20 to go to the bus stop.
Even though it's only been a week and a half, I've noticed a difference in Elias for the better. He's just a little better at communicating. He has a little more emotional control. He's starting to behave like a big kid now. Cooperate more easily. Oh and to see his joyous smile when he clamors off the bus, that rush of a hug.
The above is one reason why I love kindergarten. Here's another reason why I love it: I feel righteously accomplished that by 9:30 AM the dog is walked and fed. The dishwasher is emptied of clean dishes. Ethan and I have the rest of the day to hang out. Maybe watch a little TV. I read the newspaper. Go to the park. Or go to the library. Eat lunch when our stomachs growl with hunger, not when a clock dictates that it's lunch time.
This is the sweet life.
This is my life after kindergarten: awake at 7am. (We all know I am notoriously grumpy for the first 20 to 30 minutes after I wake up. I need time for the grogginess to dissipate.) Practically hog tie Elias and force feed him breakfast. Everyone dressed, teeth brushed, hair combed, lunch packed including morning snack, don't forget the backpack and out the door by 8:20 to go to the bus stop.
Even though it's only been a week and a half, I've noticed a difference in Elias for the better. He's just a little better at communicating. He has a little more emotional control. He's starting to behave like a big kid now. Cooperate more easily. Oh and to see his joyous smile when he clamors off the bus, that rush of a hug.
The above is one reason why I love kindergarten. Here's another reason why I love it: I feel righteously accomplished that by 9:30 AM the dog is walked and fed. The dishwasher is emptied of clean dishes. Ethan and I have the rest of the day to hang out. Maybe watch a little TV. I read the newspaper. Go to the park. Or go to the library. Eat lunch when our stomachs growl with hunger, not when a clock dictates that it's lunch time.
This is the sweet life.
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