Calling it Quits

I'm currently plodding through the memoir of a local author, "Without a Map" by Meredith Hall. 

Her story is beautifully written and comes very much to life, pulling the reader through her complicated and unconnected life.  The story begins in the mid-60's as a mostly ideal childhood which comes to an abrust halt when she became pregnant at the age of 16.  Forced by her parents, who at this point have divorced, to give her baby up for adoption, then shunned by both parents.

And therein lies the problem, her story is so sad.  Page after page after page of almost, but in the end, uncomprehending sadness.  Becoming a complete shell of herself, in spite of relationships, which leads her to leave a boyfriend in Europe and to literally walk across Europe until she arrives in the Middle East where she spends an unknown amount of time.  I read an interview with the author which ultimately divulged that the son she gave up was raised in an abusive home.

At some point she ultimately married, but she skips over this part and jumps ahead to telling her two young sons that she and their dad are divorcing, then goes out to kill the family chickens, who each have been given a name, in a very descriptively written chapter.  The hens no longer lay eggs and new chicks are arriving the next day.  All this taking place on her 38th birthday.  Did they ever eat the chickens, or did they just remain lifeless on the grass?  Why are they divorcing?

Her story is that sad and I've yet to come across one uplifting moment.  So, with this, I ask myself.  Why continue?   Seriously.  I rarely, if ever don't finish a story, but when there's simply no joy, why bring myself down.  So with that, I'm going to remove this from my kindle and try to focus instead on the quality and fluidity of her writing.

Yes, I'm calling it quits.

A Bird of a Differing Blue

Today I sat in a spot I've never sat at before.

While mowing the yard I kept getting glimpses of bright, blue birds flittering in and out of the brush that lines a corner of our yard.  They were brilliant in color when the sun would land on their tiny bodies of blue, reddish-peach and white.

After putting the lawnmower away I grabbed a chair from the deck, walked to a spot where the sun was shining behind me and just sat still.  The birds returned and seemed to be playfully flitting in and out of trees, bushes, landing on the clothesline, then off again to a new bush to perch for seemingly only seconds.

Having never seen actual bluebirds in this area before, and keeping in mind that it's nearing mid-November, I was convinced I was seeing our year-round residents, the titmouse. I sat a bit longer enjoying their antics, but the low setting sun and the cool breeze chased me inside.  After a quick google search I see that these are indeed bluebirds, or should I say, were bluebirds, as now they're gone.

Snow flakes are expected to arrive tomorrow, so perhaps they felt they best get on their way.  I hope to see you again next year, or if you're here to stay, welcome to the neighborhood!

A Warrior, Not A Worrier, I'll Be

I'm a worrier and it's certainly not a trait that I tend to mask. 

I worry about what's for dinner, about my morning commute, I worry about Roger.  Is he really well, or just bluffing? 

I worry about my mother, is she safe, I worry about my father as he watches his wife decline into the throes of old age.  

I worry that people are upset with me, stemming from over-analyzing most everything. 

And I worry about the future, endlessly.

But when it comes down to it, just by switching out the "o" for the "a", and an "io" for the "e", then I become a warrior when the occasion calls for such a reaction.  I may break down once it's all said and done and the relief has swept over me, but I can rise to the occasion and put fear on the back burner for at least a little while.

Fate

Some people refer to it as fate, others refer to it as "leaving it in God's hands".  Either way, as far as I'm concerned it means having no control over your destiny.  As much as I believe in God, I'm going to be spittin' mad if I find at the end my journey that there is no heaven and that while believing that God has a plan for me, instead I discover that I was sitting around with my thumb up my ass waiting for an answer.

So why the anguish?  The final rejection from a job interview, this time from MIT.  This particular journey involved interviewing with 7 universities; UNH, Saint Anselm, Merrimac College, SNHU, Harvard, MIT and Tufts, (yes, even my current employer turned me down), for a total of 11 positions.  I had 22 interviews with a total of 35 individuals. 

Some I can specifically pinpoint what happened, others, my gut tells me that the reality is that I'm 52-years-old. I hate to think that this could really be happening, but when seeing who they ultimately hired, I believe they see $$$ tied to experience, even when I addressed any and all concerns about pay.  This wasn't the case in every circumstance, but more often than not, the candidate they chose hovered around 30 years of age or so. 

So, with that, I've no more resumes out in the world.  No one can call me, no one.  So how long do I do this not doing anything at all thing?