Fish Food Retract

Do you have a new name for yourself -- one that expresses who you truly are right now?

I tried to think of a new name for myself yesterday per my last poetic post. But, I flailed, and I sunk, and I gurgled, and I fed fish. I wondered if I had no sense of identity afterall, still yet in my life.

However, I went to coffee with an old friend to tell her about my conference experience and to see what could be done at our school. I'm passionate, focused, and full of conviction. She is a steady rock, a burning lamp, a respecter of torches. The exchange was comfortable and productive -- the relay baton retained but handed. Afterwards, we held hands, and she prayed for me, thanking God that I was someone who would face the ocean.

Ocean Facer.

Thanks, friend -- she who identifies what others can't see in themselves.

Phone a friend or relative. Perhaps your name will rise to the surface and make a big splash.

Planking

In "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge,"a memorable short story from the excellent writer Ambrose Bierce, Peyton Farquhar must stand on a plank with a noose around his neck. When orders are given, the soldier on the other end of the plank will step aside and Mr. Farquhar, the Southern loyalist, will hang for his crime of planning to set this bridge on fire to stop Federal advance.

We read this story in class today. I must admit to a great love for literature and for teaching it, and I love the students and our interactions. So, right now, I feel like a woman on a plank. If I become accepted to the graduate counseling program which I applied to yesterday, I could hang and find myself away from the teaching of wonderful students and literature. However, if I don't apply and pursue a future professional teaching career, I feel on a plank of weariness, low pay, and assault (especially in the public school where behaviors are such a problem).

I need God-guidance. I need to make the right decision. Good night, Mr. Farquhar. May the best person awaken to the right kind of reality.

Stick and Pumps

I apologize for my literary geekiness in my last post; I realize that it's not kind to all readers.

Yet I am the English teacher lady at the board with a stick-it-to-them pole and wearing high-heeled pumps  . . . I must speak the part.

Speaking of career, earlier today I was a graduate study social worker and a professional counselor, while signed up for a graduate education course. This evening, I am now a possible counselor and the same, smiling English teacher (with high heeled pumps and stick-it-to-them-stick). I have been swirling in the possibilities of a career move, researching, calling, caffeinating, but for now, the counselor track seems like a possibility as still does the teaching track.

Work. Ambition. Macbeth.

Work. Ambition. Hillary Clinton.

Work. Ambition. Mother Mabel Carter.

Work. Ambition. Rebecca Skloot, Emily Dickinson, Virginia Woolf.

And, then there's Clara Barton, and Mother Theresa, and women who are the fabric of our society. Money isn't an issue. Their role, conviction, courage in everyday, faith are exemplary.

Illuminate my path, Counselor.

To be strumming or to not to be strumming

Career path => elusive, disappearing. I'm rarely completely happy on the one I'm on; however, perhaps I was born to strum music in a coconut grove. For this, I can't be blamed.

Yet something inside me, the Kiersey temperament test designated Idealist-Champion, desires a meaningful work role -- one which makes a difference. One which calls for sacrifice . . . . Sacrifice can be problemmatic to other good things, though, like family, or music strumming time, or a sense of safety and security.

I could become a worker where one puts in her time, makes environmental, surface relationships, learns to ingratiate and integrate, and reaps the paycheck at the end.  Yet would the work matter to someone else besides the beneficiary of my paycheck? Would I feel content?

Right now, I teach English at a private Christian school. It's wonderful in its way. The students are pleasing, attentive, appreciative, and I  promote writing and thinking. My colleagues are generous and loving. Yet . . . the job consists of full-time hours on a part-time schedule. My nights and weekends are busy fulfilling my needs for, and the job's needs for, satisfaction and excellence. It becomes tiring. Yet I do have flexible hours too and only work on MWF. How perfect is this role which was given during the time I needed it? Fairly perfect.

However, my exclusive and pristine school doesn't accept or make accomodations for special needs kids. My son could go there and take a few classes, however, if he dipped below a C, there would be no help for him. And, had I not been teaching there in the first place, he wouldn't have been accepted. I dislike this fact intensely and feel like Jesus operates differently. It's a big thorn to me, and I disagree. I am writing for change, but will "core policy" be adapted? I have a sinking feeling.

I also feel a push to seek a career which involves higher education. How can I better myself? How can I fulfill who I was created to be in a work role? Although my work life has been delayed in lieu of family commitment multiple times over (with worthwhile outcomes), time is opening up a larger door for me to walk through. It could be time to pack the bag and do it.

Therefore, today I investigate and think and make some calls. Tomorrow, we shall see.

The new year rolls on . . .

Quitting

It's easier for me to walk away than to stay. I used to go into hiding all too often when young -- down the hill into the wooded back 20, into the hall closet, out and up in the grain bin in the old milk barn. Quiet places for quitting. Thinking, detaching. Human emotions were too strong to deal with. Sounds were too loud in our small house. I was best as a quitter which meant peacefulness and restoration.

I'm reading a book now about quitting called, "Leaving Church: A Memoir of Faith" by Barbara Brown Taylor. It helps a quitter to know a quitter, and to realize that quitting isn't a full response; it's a partial punch at something threatening, and it's often a sacrifice of what poses as good to what is better, or necessary.

I've always felt badly about quitting. Even now, after I've quit my first local music group, I've agonized about what I'll be missing even though I know I will not miss the : frustrations : complexities : the dullness : the time : the lack of challenge in a new direction: lack of developed friendships. I will miss the singing : the laughs : the nursing home residents : the songs, their small group histories : members.

All in all, I really despise quitting. I know that I desire something different and new; however, the stepping off and away can be like a lonely girl moving off down the cow path in tears for something she can't control or find.

Perhaps the idea of permanence is one of the best appeals of the Christian faith. A permanence of joy and belonging, a permanence of relationship, a permanence of goodness. Here in this world, quitting can mean ourselves seeking for the best, seeking a way out of impermanence (turmoil) which can be threatening in some way or the other. Striking out for the one-day, perhaps today, hope of a strand of permanence.