How I Fear...Er, Fare

And then we came to the end.

Almost, anyway. Tomorrow is my last full day at the Library--the place that has been more of a home to me than any other building in California. Where I have been surrounded by kind, patient colleagues and supervisors that I've trusted for a long time. Where I've had the most financial and emotional security in my life. Where I felt challenged at first, and later confident, and later still too confident, and then pigeonholed and therefore somewhat resentful, most of all towards myself. But always, always,  I felt at home. Safe, and sheltered.

In 1.5 days, I am willingly walking away from that shelter. From those people, from my cubicle (now rendered almost barren), from the patrons both annoying and beloved (sometimes both), from the last known quantity in my life.

"Are you scared?" one of my colleagues asked me last week. Maybe that's not the type of question people ask each other in the workplace, but it's the kind of question that I've always answered, because I am compulsively honest, so why break the habit of the last 10 years of my life.

"I think I am," I told my colleague honestly. "But I'm scared in the same way I was when I moved to California. Then I was fucking terrified; I just didn't allow myself to realize it until after I was done and the fear had passed."

Of course I am scared. I'm scared my cats won't take their sedatives and will yowl and pee all over themselves on the long trip home. I'm afraid that I'll encounter snow on the drive, or that my car will break down, or I will die in an accident before I ever make it to Indiana. I'm scared that I've been too long in one organizational culture and won't be able to adapt. I'm scared that even with all this leadershippy self-awareness, I'll still fall into the same patterns, and won't be any different--just another worker bee that won't distinguish herself or help the Library innovate. I'm scared of everything, but at least what lies ahead is unknown, has as much potential for success as failure, whereas this present is simply more of the same--sustaining, holding the line. It's time to move forward, even if it's just a bit of a lurch.

It's time to be scared. I've gone too long in one spot, sheltered, not adapting.

Let's see what comes of my fear. Let's see what comes next.

Signs of the Times

It was so hard, not to see signs wherever I looked. Silly ones, mostly like--

The strange feeling of peace I got the morning I got the invitation to interview in Indiana.

That my divorce case file begins with the letters "IND."

That the night before my interview, my "nephew" Wesley hugged my legs and said "I want to keep you here forever!"

That the evening following my interview, I wandered into a downtown boutique and heard the music of Capercaille playing on the store's sound system--Capercaille, a rather obscure musical band that I had never before heard of before moving to Indiana.

That the next morning (a day or so after Groundhogs Day), I was scrolling through my Facebook feed, and came across this gem:

I couldn't let myself hope too much, but oh--that picture was uncanny.

And prescient, as it turns out...because I received a phone call this last Friday, with a job offer.

I'm going home. And golly, I hope this time, it's for good.

So I Guess You Call This Autumn (2015 Version)

Today was totally one of those "fooled you!" kind of days. I could have pretended that it was a gloomy Midwestern fall day, just looking out the window at the leaden-grey skies. Unfortunately, the second I stepped outside, I knew (and felt) the ugly truth: it was 90 degrees with 70% humidity. Just another late summer day in the deserts of Southern California. Still, I indulged in imagining cold air against my skin, gloomy evenings, rain lashing against the windows, pleasantly warm (not oppressively hot) kitchens. Pretty imaginings, and not really anything that could get me too homesick.

But, even so, the homesickness lurks. Yesterday, I gave Duncle a call. It was the first time I had spoken with him since my magical summer vacation, and as soon as I started talking to him, I realized why: the sound of his voice pretty much made me burst into homesick tears.

Today, there was no new news or word from the jobs that I applied to last week. And tonight, no new potential jobs posted. It's easy to just swing into utter despair, but day by torturously long day, I fiercely struggle not to. I will tell myself this as much as I need to, until I accept and believe it: every day I am still "stuck" out here is an opportunity--to retrench financially, to improve my health, to make myself more marketable, to build my character (oooh, goody, another character-building experience), to get all my ducks in a row.

Someday, I will go home. Some day, I will enjoy that chilly fall weather. Who knows? Maybe I will enjoy it with someone. Or not. For now, it is enough for me to strive for this simple, modest thing: a fulfilling job that enables me to go home to Indy and spend the rest of my life there.

Home Again, Home Again

The summer night presses close against my open window. Because we are a ways away from town, the night is even darker than it would be otherwise, and the noises are that of country, not civilization–A lone tree frog, croaking a couple of times each minute; a persistent cricket; some faint rustles near the treeline, which could be a deer or a coyote or serial killer, but most likely is one of the neurotic chipmunks that tunnel their way through the backyard and drive my poor Aunt Jo insane. 

Earlier in the day, at my request, she took me around and showed her various gardens, filled with everything from kale to black-eyed susans to green beans to raspberries to hydrangeas. But for each blossoming bush, she had a story of one plant crushed by bunnies, another decimated by hungry deer, yet another ravaged by the birds who aren’t satisfied with the feeder. After a while, I felt like I was getting less of a tour and more of a roll call of the honored dead vegetation, fallen at the hands (teeth) of Southern Indiana critters and varmints.

Still, those chipmunks are goddamned cute.

So, day 1 of 17 has passed, filled with kind relatives and scrumptious food and fireflies and firecrackers and my quiet resolve to return home, permanently, one of these days.