The first day is the hardest

I got fired an hour ago. It's probably not a good time to write a blog post; on the other hand, I've got the time now. A month ago, I lectured the Developmental Psych students on the stages of adulthood and the definition of "career consolidation." I have never had a real career -- only for short periods of time have I gone to the same place, same desk, to do the same task. There's been a lot of waitressing, temping in offices, and substitute teaching. The last few years have been the most balanced -- though it seems to the children that I've been gone a lot, I actually worked less than 40 hours a week, and the work(s) itself was balanced in the energy & thought requirements. There was usually a day or two, or a day plus an afternoon, at home in the garden, and weekends could be focussed on family, cookies, ironing, and reading. I told my DevPsych class that, in the middle of "middle adulthood," I had finally achieved what felt like career consolidation. Well..... it's a good thing there is no crystal ball in my kitchen.

I could go on a rant here, about the lack of communication about changing rules and standards, or the boss with a mental illness or two (to borrow a line from As Good As It Gets: we both give mental health a bad name!). But what does that do for me? There is no gain in that. I'll focus on the fact that I'm getting a month's severance pay, and that I have time during the holiday season, and that I can (and did already!!) accept that odd-hour adjunct gig teaching ITV Sociology. A letter is coming, said the committee that greeted me at the office door this morning. They provided boxes and didn't need to go through them: they trust me they said. Ahhhhh.... the tension, worry, daymares, perhaps actual angst is over. That's a good thing.

So, today, I'll do what I was going to do at the other job (babysitting a phone was a primary task) -- grade papers, complete grade reports, set up a Ch. 14 game for class, prepare for the scout meeting tomorrow. And I'll finish that silly mystery novel. And clean the bathroom and water the plants. And I get to work -- at a job I love to do! -- tonight. When I go to bed tonight, the day will seem like a good and productive one (cover the crystal ball!). The sun is shining. That's a good thing. Add "Walk The Dog" to the Do-List.

Maps and Journeys

I am reading a book called The Island of Lost Maps about cartographic crime. The author does a wonderful job of interweaving the metaphor "Maps" into a story about the histories of certain maps and about one certain map-thief. Maps are the portrait of, the reason for, and the story of journeys of both the soul and the body. Add in this quotation from a recent email from my brother, who is establishing a foundation "for good works" in our mother's name: "I have a variety of personal reactions when I read such stories as these. I think, "Oh, everything I want to do is already being done." I also think, "If a 14 year old girl can raise that much money, and a pastor plunks down everything he has, how can I set my sights any lower?" And then I worry, too, that I won't achieve what these ordinary folks have achieved with such apparent aplomb. I suppose the only thing to do is just keep at it."

I am busy these days living on several types of time. The healthcare debate promises either little change (the version that passed last night won't change lives for many people) or huge change (assassination and revolution): I fear for my country and weep for the fading of optimistic belief in the mirage called "American Dream." My inheritance from my mother will be used to buy my house from the bank -- that's telescoping about 15 years of my life into the minutes it takes to sign the check and seal the envelope. I have (finally!) set a teaching schedule for the spring, still a few months away, one that promises both periodic flurries of never-home busyness and new challenges relating to pedogogy. Spring will also bring the execution of those plans made in the days of waning summer and of frigid winter.... And, today, on a day when I have to look at a calendar to find out what the date is, and when the sunshine is saying through the window "Come quickly! I'll be gone soon," I am making a list of what must be done before bedtime.

I have been working on my lectures about the various stages of "adulthood" (as set out by our textbook). I think I'm in, or due for, a mid-life crisis. Perhaps I had one and didn't notice. I am aware that my clock is ticking. I am aware that I think about dying more often than I used to (eg., the mortgage will mature in 2024 and my first thought is that I might not be here to see it -- math is not one of my skills). Because of my experience with my mother's passing, I see the files of banking and insurances and children's college funds in a whole new light ("Oh, I should organize those!"). But, to my own confusion and fascination, I am at the same time eager to see what the next corner brings. If this is what age 50 feels like, what will it be like to be 65? Can I really eat & exercise enough to forestall disintegration? I ask my young-adult students, "What is old?" Am I a grown-up yet? One assignment in this class will be to write an obituary for yourself. What do I want on my headstone? In the end, at the end, what will I turn out to be? This is a journey that doesn't allow maps.

Autumn is just the end of the chapter

The anniversary of Mom's death was September 22nd, and her house was sold a week later. We have lived through the many firsts of new grief, and the house is -- gone, no more Christmas gatherings there, few reasons to ever return to that city -- that is the end of a chapter.

The last of the tomatoes were eaten or canned, and we had a meal of peas; the fishing started to get difficult, plus windy and cold; the wood ricks were brought up from the basement and EA cleaned the chimney. I put straw thickly on top of the new strawberries and asparagus (-gi?) and spent some time getting the new potting room organized (the table is not yet in, and that space is taken up with drying dahlia & canna tubers). Fall is coming (it's at least 50 degrees today with sunshine!) -- and that is an end of a chapter.

I spent (too) much time these last few months realizing that my LIFE book has only a few chapters left: each body system did an old-age hiccup and then settled into a new "normal." In impulsive rebellion, I picked out new plastic eyeglass frames: sort of like Elvis Costello's, and not so impulsively, I really am going to buy the zipper hightops: it's BOGO month. I read alot, so I naturally begin to see life and its myriad adventures (and those misadventures!) as being set between covers, with chapter breaks intermittently providing a false sense of resolution. Many chapters ended this fall and I feel grief in different degrees, yet -- like those #$&%* squirrels -- I feel at the very same a sense of excitement, about what takes up the space in my head, the hours on my calendar, or this blog spot. I'm waiting for confirmation of my spring teaching schedule; the garden catalogs have been arriving in the mail (another compost bin, I think, and I will try planting potatoes under the little-used clothesline); my gynecologist and I have made a pact to get out with our friends twice as often as we do now (that will equal two times: social networking does not come easily to workaholics with odd artistic and political perspectives). I discovered that I actually waiting to see how well I fare this winter, depression-wise, and if the new tricks I've been reading about will really work (Item 1: abundant plastic plants in my windowless office -done). A chapter has ended. OK, lots of chapters have ended. And every one is followed by a new page.