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A few years ago, I had trouble getting signed into this blog and, at the time, Google was no help at all.
On a lark, I attempted to return to these virtual pages today...and here I am.
I hope to come back here on a regular basis, now that I've found access again.
Saturday, April 7, 2012
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
A Few of My Favorite Things
This Yuletide, I find myself waxing nostalgic for reasons I can't explain. Maybe it's because I'm growing more fully aware of the passage of time. Battling health issues - even relatively minor ones - has a way of making you look at your own mortality. Maybe as the world seems to grow larger and darker and more sinister, I wish for the return of a simpler, brighter, and more innocent time.
Whatever the reason, it makes me think back to my childhood with a mix of sweet and of bitter. There was a purity of heart, a sense of astonished wonder, that I had as a child. Magick was real, and it was all around. Children can feel this magick. Their hearts are unburdened and open and exquisitely naive. The cynicism that comes with age hasn't touched them yet - cynicism that blinds adults to elves spying through windows and makes them feel foolish for looking for reindeer or sleigh tracks in the snow on Christmas Eve.
I remember the feelings of anticipation and excitement I had, knowing Santa was coming, wondering what would be in the wrapped packages beneath the tree. I can remember the feelings but I can't touch them anymore, can't taste them. When I was an age I can't quite remember, my cousin told me that Santa wasn't real. I didn't want to believe it but eventually, the facade fell, and I couldn't go back, couldn't un-learn, and the magick was lost to me. The part of my heart that believed in the jolly old elf who delivered presents to children swung shut.
Little by little, the simple joys of the season began to be lost. The unbridled glee of flying down a slippery hill on a sled or a saucer or even on a plastic garbage bag, tumbling to a halt at the foot of the slope only to climb up and do it all over again. Sitting by the radio early on a snowy morning, listening intently to the school closings, silently hurrying the announcers through their alphabetic list, ecstatic when they reached the B's and said, "Big Lake." Bundling up in snow pants and coat and scarf and hat and mittens and boots to conquer the drifts, building structures that were castles or forts or houses or, one year, even a dragon. Helping Mom make spritz cookies, using the copper and white cookie press, eating more dough than finished product. Being amused when Dad tried to sneak his gifts open out of turn, looking like a naughty child all the while, perhaps even thinking he was getting away with it without us noticing.
Time has a way of stripping the bad from a remembrance, creating a selective amnesia that allows only the good to flow through the filter. Sometimes a flight down the hill resulted in a bloody nose or other slight injury. Sometimes the announcers never said "Big Lake." The dragon melted away into a slushy pile on the lawn. Too much raw dough caused a stomachache. Dad hasn't been with us for six Christmases now.
Memories can be tarnished but, as with a cherished antique, the burnishing and imperfections can be what makes something valuable and loved. As the Skin Horse said in The Velveteen Rabbit: "Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."
I don't mind the nicks and dings. What I miss is the heart-magick that seems to be inherent in us as children. The sweet innocence that lets us believe - TRULY believe, without reservation - there are toy-making elves and flying reindeer. The uninhibited spirit that allows us to get fully, totally, blissfully lost in the sensation as we fly down an icy hill or birth mystical creatures from snow.
I want to peel away the hardening of adulthood. I want to again know the joy of listening for sleigh bells and reindeer hooves on a cold December night. To experience the nearly painful anticipation of lying in bed, waiting as long as possible before rushing down the stairs to open presents. To fall back into the snow and make an angel and stare up at the sky, pondering the impossible number of possibilities.
I want the return of my favorite things.
Whatever the reason, it makes me think back to my childhood with a mix of sweet and of bitter. There was a purity of heart, a sense of astonished wonder, that I had as a child. Magick was real, and it was all around. Children can feel this magick. Their hearts are unburdened and open and exquisitely naive. The cynicism that comes with age hasn't touched them yet - cynicism that blinds adults to elves spying through windows and makes them feel foolish for looking for reindeer or sleigh tracks in the snow on Christmas Eve.
I remember the feelings of anticipation and excitement I had, knowing Santa was coming, wondering what would be in the wrapped packages beneath the tree. I can remember the feelings but I can't touch them anymore, can't taste them. When I was an age I can't quite remember, my cousin told me that Santa wasn't real. I didn't want to believe it but eventually, the facade fell, and I couldn't go back, couldn't un-learn, and the magick was lost to me. The part of my heart that believed in the jolly old elf who delivered presents to children swung shut.
Little by little, the simple joys of the season began to be lost. The unbridled glee of flying down a slippery hill on a sled or a saucer or even on a plastic garbage bag, tumbling to a halt at the foot of the slope only to climb up and do it all over again. Sitting by the radio early on a snowy morning, listening intently to the school closings, silently hurrying the announcers through their alphabetic list, ecstatic when they reached the B's and said, "Big Lake." Bundling up in snow pants and coat and scarf and hat and mittens and boots to conquer the drifts, building structures that were castles or forts or houses or, one year, even a dragon. Helping Mom make spritz cookies, using the copper and white cookie press, eating more dough than finished product. Being amused when Dad tried to sneak his gifts open out of turn, looking like a naughty child all the while, perhaps even thinking he was getting away with it without us noticing.
Time has a way of stripping the bad from a remembrance, creating a selective amnesia that allows only the good to flow through the filter. Sometimes a flight down the hill resulted in a bloody nose or other slight injury. Sometimes the announcers never said "Big Lake." The dragon melted away into a slushy pile on the lawn. Too much raw dough caused a stomachache. Dad hasn't been with us for six Christmases now.
Memories can be tarnished but, as with a cherished antique, the burnishing and imperfections can be what makes something valuable and loved. As the Skin Horse said in The Velveteen Rabbit: "Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."
I don't mind the nicks and dings. What I miss is the heart-magick that seems to be inherent in us as children. The sweet innocence that lets us believe - TRULY believe, without reservation - there are toy-making elves and flying reindeer. The uninhibited spirit that allows us to get fully, totally, blissfully lost in the sensation as we fly down an icy hill or birth mystical creatures from snow.
I want to peel away the hardening of adulthood. I want to again know the joy of listening for sleigh bells and reindeer hooves on a cold December night. To experience the nearly painful anticipation of lying in bed, waiting as long as possible before rushing down the stairs to open presents. To fall back into the snow and make an angel and stare up at the sky, pondering the impossible number of possibilities.
I want the return of my favorite things.
Friday, September 11, 2009
September 11
Today marks the eight-year anniversary of the 9/11 terrorist attacks. MSNBC is replaying news coverage from that morning; against my better judgment, I tuned in.
I haven't seen images from 9/11 for quite some time. I remember when it first happened, I was glued to the TV, couldn't turn the damned thing off. It seemed so unreal, like a movie. I know many people have described it like that - I'm sure that's our human way of shielding ourselves from the horror, from the knowing that it actually happened. One of the most chilling photos I saw was on the cover of a magazine - Time, I believe. It showed the WTC and a plane was in the shot, just seconds before it plowed into one of the towers. It was horrifying because you knew that within a heartbeat of that frozen moment, all hell was going to break loose. I would stare at that photo, wishing I could reach in while time was motionless and pluck that plane out of the sky.
I joined MSNBC's coverage while the first tower was burning, and I could feel myself getting ill because I knew what was about to happen. I can't even really describe the emotion that welled up in me while watching the second plane strike the other tower. My brain had the "this is a movie" thought again for a brief moment, and then I just started to wail. I did that weeping/screaming thing that you do when tears alone don't seem to adequately express the terror and rage and sickness and sadness that come from some deep, dark place inside.
I couldn't bear to watch the towers fall so I turned the channel to ESPN, wanting to regain some equilibrium through the utter banality of people talking about sports. Even without seeing it happen again, I know the shadow memory of those buildings crumbling to the ground in a plume of smoke and metal and humanity will be with me the rest of my life.
Thank you to all the emergency personnel who risked their lives to rescue others. Thank you to all the firefighters from across the nation who travelled to NYC to help. Thank you to all of the everyday people who became heroes with their actions on that day. Thank you to the brave passengers on United Flight 93 who sacrificed themselves to perhaps save many, many others. Thank you to everyone who refused to let the terrorists win, who wiped the proverbial blood from their mouth after such a hard blow and said, "You can't keep us down forever. We are stronger than that."
Blessings to everyone who was affected by this life-changing day.
I haven't seen images from 9/11 for quite some time. I remember when it first happened, I was glued to the TV, couldn't turn the damned thing off. It seemed so unreal, like a movie. I know many people have described it like that - I'm sure that's our human way of shielding ourselves from the horror, from the knowing that it actually happened. One of the most chilling photos I saw was on the cover of a magazine - Time, I believe. It showed the WTC and a plane was in the shot, just seconds before it plowed into one of the towers. It was horrifying because you knew that within a heartbeat of that frozen moment, all hell was going to break loose. I would stare at that photo, wishing I could reach in while time was motionless and pluck that plane out of the sky.
I joined MSNBC's coverage while the first tower was burning, and I could feel myself getting ill because I knew what was about to happen. I can't even really describe the emotion that welled up in me while watching the second plane strike the other tower. My brain had the "this is a movie" thought again for a brief moment, and then I just started to wail. I did that weeping/screaming thing that you do when tears alone don't seem to adequately express the terror and rage and sickness and sadness that come from some deep, dark place inside.
I couldn't bear to watch the towers fall so I turned the channel to ESPN, wanting to regain some equilibrium through the utter banality of people talking about sports. Even without seeing it happen again, I know the shadow memory of those buildings crumbling to the ground in a plume of smoke and metal and humanity will be with me the rest of my life.
Thank you to all the emergency personnel who risked their lives to rescue others. Thank you to all the firefighters from across the nation who travelled to NYC to help. Thank you to all of the everyday people who became heroes with their actions on that day. Thank you to the brave passengers on United Flight 93 who sacrificed themselves to perhaps save many, many others. Thank you to everyone who refused to let the terrorists win, who wiped the proverbial blood from their mouth after such a hard blow and said, "You can't keep us down forever. We are stronger than that."
Blessings to everyone who was affected by this life-changing day.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Smile Though Your Heart is Aching
I watched the memorial for Michael Jackson yesterday, and I'm still attempting to wrap my mind around it. I felt it was a fitting tribute to a larger-than-life icon - it had a bit of an award ceremony feel to it and yet, it was funereal and somber. There was no doubting that it was poignant in places. You would have to be stone-hearted if you didn't feel a tug while watching Jermaine sing Smile, his brother's favorite song; if you didn't get teary eyed as Usher struggled through Gone Too Soon; if you didn't outright cry when Michael's 11-year-old daughter took the microphone and wept about the loss of her father.
The service capped a two-week span of nearly non-stop news coverage so Michael was never far from my mind, and I struggled with how I felt about him as a person. I was never a huge "fan" of his - I enjoyed his music and videos well enough, and I felt that at times he displayed otherworldly talent, but I never wore a single glove or learned to moonwalk. But those were my feelings about his craft, not about his character. I knew how I felt about the entertainer - how did I feel about the man?
Unfortunately, the first thing that seems to come to mind when you think about Michael is the unsavory child molestation business. He was found not guilty in a court of law but even so, that taint always remains. Admittedly, I knew very little about the facts of the cases so I went in search of knowledge this morning.
After reading a few pages of documentation, I'm nearly fully convinced that he wasn't guilty. I think the deadbeat psycho parents of his accusers pimped their kids out with the intention of extorting money from Jackson, pure and simple, and it makes me sick. For each of these two kids who levelled accusations, there were 15 kids who said nothing ever happened when they spent time with Michael. Staffers for Jackson came out with stories of molestation; however, some of these were disgruntled people who had been fired and all of them were promised thousands of dollars from tabloids to tell their story. If they'd truly been concerned, I have a feeling they would've told these stories to the police for free - not suddenly felt compelled to tell the "truth" after some rag waved some money in front of them. Hell, even sister LaToya accused Michael of being a child molester...only to admit later that her husband had told her to do it for the money her story would bring in.
I can't imagine the horror and humiliation of this entire situation. Apparently, one of the kids said Jackson had exposed himself, and the kid described Jackson's genitals. So Michael submitted to a 25-minute strip search - I'm sure pictures were taken during this procedure, to be submitted as evidence. [Turns out there were some similarities but not enough to make a positive ID, as it were, including that the kid said he was circumsized, which wasn't true.] Add to that all the media vultures skulking around, all the horrible headlines, all the accusing eyes.
People assume that Jackson was guilty because he settled out of court with the family of the first kid - oh, he didn't want a trial, he must be hiding something. Truthfully, I think he just wanted it to be over. There had been enough misery which took a huge toll on his health and his career, and he just wanted it finished. I find it interesting that this kid's parents put a price on their son's head - $22 million. If it were your child and you knew your case was rock solid, wouldn't you have wanted to drag Jackson's butt into court? No matter what the outcome of the trial, wouldn't you have wanted to destroy the man who molested your child? Apparently $22 million erased the kid's trauma well enough. Of course, this boy's father said, when asked how he thought all of this would affect his son, "That's irrelevant to me...It will be a massacre if I don't get what I want."
What a lovely guy.
Was Michael a saint? Certainly not. Was he odd/eccentric/strange? Yes, but there's no law against that. Did he look at pornography? Perhaps, but if that were illegal [apart from child pornography], half the planet would be in prison. Was he flawed? He had faults as deep-reaching as those beneath San Andreas. Was he influential? He met with princes and presidents, congresspersons and kings, revolutionaries and royals. Did he make bad decisions? Many times. Was he generous? He gave millions to charity [he was listed in the Guinness Book of Records as the pop star who supports the most charities].
I'm actually surprised that Michael lasted as long as he did. He was thrust into adulthood, never had an opportunity to be a child. I can understand why he wanted to cling to child-like behavior, since that was stolen from him. I'm sure some people think "poor little rich boy," and I don't excuse his refusal to grow up. We all have an albatross around our neck for which we're responsible, and most healthy adults have an ability to remove, or at least to cope with, the weight. But I don't believe Michael had the ability to adequately handle his demons, and I think that denial [along with genuine physical pain from years of performing] is what drove him to drugs. He was broken at an early age and really never stood a chance as an adult. That he lived to 50 years of age is a testament to his determination.
I'm hoping Michael's legacy will be one of hope and love. He was far from perfect, but I hope future generations will focus more on his contributions than his failings. He wanted to heal the world, wanted people to join together regardless of race, had the child-like desire to fix every hurt and right every wrong. He gave millions of people a reason to smile, to thrill, to be amazed, to reach out and try something new, to strive to be more. And I thank him for that.
The service capped a two-week span of nearly non-stop news coverage so Michael was never far from my mind, and I struggled with how I felt about him as a person. I was never a huge "fan" of his - I enjoyed his music and videos well enough, and I felt that at times he displayed otherworldly talent, but I never wore a single glove or learned to moonwalk. But those were my feelings about his craft, not about his character. I knew how I felt about the entertainer - how did I feel about the man?
Unfortunately, the first thing that seems to come to mind when you think about Michael is the unsavory child molestation business. He was found not guilty in a court of law but even so, that taint always remains. Admittedly, I knew very little about the facts of the cases so I went in search of knowledge this morning.
After reading a few pages of documentation, I'm nearly fully convinced that he wasn't guilty. I think the deadbeat psycho parents of his accusers pimped their kids out with the intention of extorting money from Jackson, pure and simple, and it makes me sick. For each of these two kids who levelled accusations, there were 15 kids who said nothing ever happened when they spent time with Michael. Staffers for Jackson came out with stories of molestation; however, some of these were disgruntled people who had been fired and all of them were promised thousands of dollars from tabloids to tell their story. If they'd truly been concerned, I have a feeling they would've told these stories to the police for free - not suddenly felt compelled to tell the "truth" after some rag waved some money in front of them. Hell, even sister LaToya accused Michael of being a child molester...only to admit later that her husband had told her to do it for the money her story would bring in.
I can't imagine the horror and humiliation of this entire situation. Apparently, one of the kids said Jackson had exposed himself, and the kid described Jackson's genitals. So Michael submitted to a 25-minute strip search - I'm sure pictures were taken during this procedure, to be submitted as evidence. [Turns out there were some similarities but not enough to make a positive ID, as it were, including that the kid said he was circumsized, which wasn't true.] Add to that all the media vultures skulking around, all the horrible headlines, all the accusing eyes.
People assume that Jackson was guilty because he settled out of court with the family of the first kid - oh, he didn't want a trial, he must be hiding something. Truthfully, I think he just wanted it to be over. There had been enough misery which took a huge toll on his health and his career, and he just wanted it finished. I find it interesting that this kid's parents put a price on their son's head - $22 million. If it were your child and you knew your case was rock solid, wouldn't you have wanted to drag Jackson's butt into court? No matter what the outcome of the trial, wouldn't you have wanted to destroy the man who molested your child? Apparently $22 million erased the kid's trauma well enough. Of course, this boy's father said, when asked how he thought all of this would affect his son, "That's irrelevant to me...It will be a massacre if I don't get what I want."
What a lovely guy.
Was Michael a saint? Certainly not. Was he odd/eccentric/strange? Yes, but there's no law against that. Did he look at pornography? Perhaps, but if that were illegal [apart from child pornography], half the planet would be in prison. Was he flawed? He had faults as deep-reaching as those beneath San Andreas. Was he influential? He met with princes and presidents, congresspersons and kings, revolutionaries and royals. Did he make bad decisions? Many times. Was he generous? He gave millions to charity [he was listed in the Guinness Book of Records as the pop star who supports the most charities].
I'm actually surprised that Michael lasted as long as he did. He was thrust into adulthood, never had an opportunity to be a child. I can understand why he wanted to cling to child-like behavior, since that was stolen from him. I'm sure some people think "poor little rich boy," and I don't excuse his refusal to grow up. We all have an albatross around our neck for which we're responsible, and most healthy adults have an ability to remove, or at least to cope with, the weight. But I don't believe Michael had the ability to adequately handle his demons, and I think that denial [along with genuine physical pain from years of performing] is what drove him to drugs. He was broken at an early age and really never stood a chance as an adult. That he lived to 50 years of age is a testament to his determination.
I'm hoping Michael's legacy will be one of hope and love. He was far from perfect, but I hope future generations will focus more on his contributions than his failings. He wanted to heal the world, wanted people to join together regardless of race, had the child-like desire to fix every hurt and right every wrong. He gave millions of people a reason to smile, to thrill, to be amazed, to reach out and try something new, to strive to be more. And I thank him for that.
Like a comet blazing 'cross the evening sky
Gone too soon
Like a rainbow fading in the twinkling of an eye
Gone too soon
Shiny and sparkly and splendidly bright
Here one day, gone one night.
Like the loss of sunlight on a cloudy afternoon
Gone too soon
Like a castle built upon a sandy beach
Gone too soon
Like a perfect flower that is just beyond your reach
Gone too soon
Born to amuse, to inspire, to delight
Here one day, gone one night
Like a sunset dying with the rising of the moon
Gone too soon
Gone too soon
Thursday, June 25, 2009
For Today
I've been tagged by my bestest friend (via her blog) to do this so here we go...
Outside my window...is a sunny and HOT day.
I am thinking...that it's too damned hot.
I am thankful for...central air.
From the kitchen...clean dishes in the drainer and boxes of Lucky Charms on the counter.
I am wearing...my husband's cast-off Philadelphia Flyers T-shirt and raggedy teal-colored shorts.
I am creating...sweat and carbon dioxide.
I am going...nowhere for the remainder of the day.
I am reading...It's Only Too Late if You Don't Start Now by Barbara Sher.
I am hoping...that it cools down soon.
I am hearing...the Brazil/South Africa soccer match on TV.
Around the house...cats and cat hair.
One of my favorite things...central air. [Sensing a pattern, are you?]
A few plans for the rest of the week...watching sports, taking Willow to the vet, doing some yardwork (if it cools down), doing laundry.
Outside my window...is a sunny and HOT day.
I am thinking...that it's too damned hot.
I am thankful for...central air.
From the kitchen...clean dishes in the drainer and boxes of Lucky Charms on the counter.
I am wearing...my husband's cast-off Philadelphia Flyers T-shirt and raggedy teal-colored shorts.
I am creating...sweat and carbon dioxide.
I am going...nowhere for the remainder of the day.
I am reading...It's Only Too Late if You Don't Start Now by Barbara Sher.
I am hoping...that it cools down soon.
I am hearing...the Brazil/South Africa soccer match on TV.
Around the house...cats and cat hair.
One of my favorite things...central air. [Sensing a pattern, are you?]
A few plans for the rest of the week...watching sports, taking Willow to the vet, doing some yardwork (if it cools down), doing laundry.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Patriot Games
This year, the Chamber of Commerce in my city has decided to cancel the July 4 fireworks display, citing rising costs - both financial and in volunteer time. Judging from the letters in the paper, you would think the Chamber had changed its name to Al Qaeda/Benedict Arnold/Puppy Beaters. Ye gods, people are freaking out, throwing around words like "unpatriotic." WTF?
I'm fed up to the point that I'm planning to send the following letter to the paper...
Over the past couple weeks, I’ve been reading the letters decrying the lack of a July 4 fireworks display. Appalling! Shocking! Unpatriotic!
I’ve given this some thought, and one question comes to mind: Are you people serious?
By definition, "patriotism" means "love for or devotion to one’s country" or "devoted love, support and defense of one’s country; national loyalty." In my opinion, setting off fireworks celebrates America about as much as going to a holiday sale at Sears celebrates Memorial Day. It has absolutely no relevance.
Instead of sitting on your rump for a half hour watching sparkly lights, DO something that actively honors that for which America stands. Put together a block party for your neighborhood. Visit with a veteran and thank him or her for serving our country. Adopt a stretch of highway and collect trash. Donate time or money to our national neighbors when disaster strikes. Teach English as a second language to people who want to be successful and productive members of this country. Exercise your privilege to vote. Go to your place of worship and be grateful that you’re allowed freedom of religion. Commend our City leaders for being good stewards of our resources by cutting unnecessary expenses (like fireworks displays). Show your devotion to the country every day, not just during one fleeting event at the beginning of July. I agree that gathering as a community is important as it shows unity and communal pride - can’t this be accomplished without benefit of pyrotechnics?
For the folks who enjoy the fireworks displays, I can understand and sympathize with your disappointment; I’m sure the break in this long-standing tradition is quite upsetting to you. But please take a deep breath, gain some perspective, and cease viewing the City/Chamber as a modern-day Benedict Arnold.
I'm fed up to the point that I'm planning to send the following letter to the paper...
Over the past couple weeks, I’ve been reading the letters decrying the lack of a July 4 fireworks display. Appalling! Shocking! Unpatriotic!
I’ve given this some thought, and one question comes to mind: Are you people serious?
By definition, "patriotism" means "love for or devotion to one’s country" or "devoted love, support and defense of one’s country; national loyalty." In my opinion, setting off fireworks celebrates America about as much as going to a holiday sale at Sears celebrates Memorial Day. It has absolutely no relevance.
Instead of sitting on your rump for a half hour watching sparkly lights, DO something that actively honors that for which America stands. Put together a block party for your neighborhood. Visit with a veteran and thank him or her for serving our country. Adopt a stretch of highway and collect trash. Donate time or money to our national neighbors when disaster strikes. Teach English as a second language to people who want to be successful and productive members of this country. Exercise your privilege to vote. Go to your place of worship and be grateful that you’re allowed freedom of religion. Commend our City leaders for being good stewards of our resources by cutting unnecessary expenses (like fireworks displays). Show your devotion to the country every day, not just during one fleeting event at the beginning of July. I agree that gathering as a community is important as it shows unity and communal pride - can’t this be accomplished without benefit of pyrotechnics?
For the folks who enjoy the fireworks displays, I can understand and sympathize with your disappointment; I’m sure the break in this long-standing tradition is quite upsetting to you. But please take a deep breath, gain some perspective, and cease viewing the City/Chamber as a modern-day Benedict Arnold.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Free at Last, Free at Last...
At approximately 12:10 p.m. this afternoon, I walked out of my workplace - as an employee - for the last time.
My supervisor finally pissed me off to the point of no return two weeks ago today; my two-week notice was in her hand the Monday that followed. My timing was quite fortunate, as she's been on vacation this past week so I didn't have to deal with her during my final week there. That was an added bonus.
I was happy to go, almost ecstatic. Knowing I only had 10 more days made me feel like a kid counting down the final weeks of school. It was a relief to realize I didn't have to endure the soul-crushing boredom, to realize I could finally walk away from some of these people whom I had allowed to cause me such grief.
I hate fanfare and wanted to just quietly slip out the door, but I had to let a few parishioners know that I had submitted my resignation, so they would know to direct their inquiries to someone else in the office. I pretty much figured that word would spread (which it did), and I received many glowing accolades from the folks who had come to appreciate my presence. It was a nice ego boost - I didn't really require one, but it was welcome just the same.
Imagine my surprise when tears came during my final chat with the big boss, during a final hug with a coworker. Despite needing desperately to leave that place, I did make some connections that I'll miss - good things that weren't extinguished by all the crap that took place. It's nice to know I can keep those pieces separate, that I've refused to allow the good memories to be tarnished by lumping them in with the bad.
It hasn't quite hit me yet that I'm unemployed. I'm sure it will either happen upon me slowly or it will come in a sudden rush, and I'll panic for a while, and then I'll settle back down.
I knew there would be changes in the wind this year. Quitting my job, enrolling in school [no, I haven't written about that here, but I've enrolled in a class for the Fall semester]. Scary changes, to be sure, but positively necessary ones.
Now I'm free.
My supervisor finally pissed me off to the point of no return two weeks ago today; my two-week notice was in her hand the Monday that followed. My timing was quite fortunate, as she's been on vacation this past week so I didn't have to deal with her during my final week there. That was an added bonus.
I was happy to go, almost ecstatic. Knowing I only had 10 more days made me feel like a kid counting down the final weeks of school. It was a relief to realize I didn't have to endure the soul-crushing boredom, to realize I could finally walk away from some of these people whom I had allowed to cause me such grief.
I hate fanfare and wanted to just quietly slip out the door, but I had to let a few parishioners know that I had submitted my resignation, so they would know to direct their inquiries to someone else in the office. I pretty much figured that word would spread (which it did), and I received many glowing accolades from the folks who had come to appreciate my presence. It was a nice ego boost - I didn't really require one, but it was welcome just the same.
Imagine my surprise when tears came during my final chat with the big boss, during a final hug with a coworker. Despite needing desperately to leave that place, I did make some connections that I'll miss - good things that weren't extinguished by all the crap that took place. It's nice to know I can keep those pieces separate, that I've refused to allow the good memories to be tarnished by lumping them in with the bad.
It hasn't quite hit me yet that I'm unemployed. I'm sure it will either happen upon me slowly or it will come in a sudden rush, and I'll panic for a while, and then I'll settle back down.
I knew there would be changes in the wind this year. Quitting my job, enrolling in school [no, I haven't written about that here, but I've enrolled in a class for the Fall semester]. Scary changes, to be sure, but positively necessary ones.
Now I'm free.
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