The world often does not tee up our lives for success. More likely, the hurdles, traps, and water jumps are difficult and hazardous. In my case, a fall could take months to recover from. And the obstacles are often unexpected.
In February of this year, I suffered a catastrophic dental accident, losing three of my top front teeth. My initial reaction, “Oh, Fuck.” My reaction a few hours later, “God, what the fuck have you done?” My reflection now, in September, “I was forced to shut the fuck up.”
All kinds of other things were veering off course at that moment, the teeth and my inability to speak in public, or go out in public, was an effective FULL STOP message. My resolve, my inner confidence and strength crumbled in a few days. Optimism changed to nihilism. So many creative plans involved my speaking or singing voice. Fini!
Two days ago I was under heavy sedation for more than three hours as the cosmetic dentist shaved, pruned, plunged, and yanked my upper arch into submission. It was of note that the “sedation” was my dad’s old sleeping pill, Halcyon. Damn. I twilighted for a full day and then some. Yesterday I woke, no other chemicals added, and I was still hungover, hallucinating, or in some new “old man fog of faculties.”
I waved at my father’s ghost a few times. This was his regular nightly med. Along with the fifth of Cutty Sark. How my father moved the next morning, much less made coffee and drove into the office by 10 am is beyond me. Yesterday I woke at 4 am, I had gone to sleep around 8 pm. I got up, foggy, tired, and slightly pissed off. Coffee wasn’t going to cut it. It smelled bad when I brewed my first cup. I ate a banana, drank some water and climbed back in bed to gratefully go coma for another five hours. I had a follow-up appointment with the torture artist at 10 am. I was a few minutes late, but it wasn’t my fault.
Shit, I’m still under the fog and I have to be at work today at noon. Fuck work.
The THREE opportunities that had me excited and optimistic all faded into silence. Amazing, how excited and enthusiastic the Eastern Indian recruiters are about your chances. Once you sign their Right to Represent letter, you’ll never hear from them again. Unless you actually get the job, which has happened for me TWICE. It’s still a good idea to let them submit you. The recent jobs were for Apple, Adobe, and the State of Texas. So far, nada moo for me.
I find my fog at half mast today. Enthusiasm, even for the river of life at my job, low. There will be plenty of healthy and active customers to oogle and encourage. I will survive two-hour segments at a time. But now, I have four and a half hours to do whatever the fuck I want. I am writing this. What I want to do, in life, is find time, joy, and energy to write.
I’ve had periods where the writing wouldn’t come. Mainly during depressions or illnesses of some sort. I’ve had periods where my output and enthusiasm was too high, bouncing off the moon high. I’m still adjusting my fuel and navigation. I’ve learned to aim for a 5 or 6 on a scale of 1 – 10. 10 being how “high” I was at prep school when I required sedation of a different sort. A breif stay in a local mental ICU.
This is not that. I do think the molecules of Stellazine are still leeching out of my soul from time to time. When I’m really low I wonder if the old meds kick back in to provide additional undertow.
For many years I’ve studied zen philosphy, buddhism, tai chi, and aikido. I have arrived at some acceptance of my present moment. Today’s awareness comes from my ecstatic declaration a moment ago about my happy state. I can confirm today, even as drugged as I still feel, as much dread as I have about the eight-hour shift ahead, I am content.
Perhaps contentment and happiness are different flavors of the same human feeling of satiation, satisfaction, fulfillment. Am I fulfilled? No. Am I content? Also no, but trending upward. I am resolved to my current liminal state. The path forward has not been lit up. The history of sadness and violence appears distant and unrelated. Of course, everything is related. This whole thing (pokes a finger at my own chest) is connected and related. How I sleep, how I eat, other things I ingest, all impact my physical self.
So, as my body is exhausted from the dental procedure and the drug lag, I am okay about my upcoming shift at the store. I am not happy about it. I am not depressed about it. It just is.
It doesn’t provide enough money to make even half of my monthly payments, so I’m still stressed about a lot of things, especially nearing the start of new month. Today is the twelfth. I have a little room on my tether. Liminal. All that has happened before, paused, and all that is coming also paused. I’m in the pause. A common thread in my life.
The Waiting.
A wise general does not sleep at night when the battlefield is empty. Actively waiting, the wise man marshals his resources, plans for the dawn attack, and drafts angles of his approach through the night until the victorious plan is complete. Actively waiting is not sleeping. Actively waiting is not striking out on the quest when your objective is unclear. Actively waiting is planning, listening, resting without sleeping, marshalling all your powers of imagination and strength until the ANSWER, the path forward, the plan of attack is clear.
My plan of attack is no longer obvious. The old routine of job applications, reference requests, recruiter calls, and updating my LinkedIn profile… Nothing. A number of interviews, so that’s positive, and then silence.
Even at my job, the way forward is blocked by incompetence and indifference. I’m a cog, a cashier. Replaceable. Of low value. A pawn.
As a pawn, it’s important that I know my place. I show up on time. Do my shift. Cause no harm. Go home. For this duty I will receive one good meal at a 20% discount, two ten-minute breaks, and enough money to bleed out my savings for several years, should I be stuck in this hole for longer than expected. Well, shit, I’m already here longer than expected.
What’s the next gear?
Wait.
Plan.
Apply, yes, but look into alternative strategies. Other routes upward.
The constellation of ideas swirl above me now. Writing. Music. A Walt Whitman standup performance with a long grey beard. The cover band, Johnny Mac and the Attack. Radiohead tribute band. The AI classes, businesses, creative motions. Dad stuff. Father and son challenges. And me. What’s my temperature? No relationship. Okay. No open job prospects. Okay, fire up some more right now. Bloom is raging ahead with creative fire. Am I happy? Am I content? Is everything in its right place?
All of it, and my creative response. Living and breathing my creative response to life.
This.
Is.
My.
Joy.
