313 Days - What I've Learned

A few things have happened since my last post - I've reached out to friends and contacts for advice; I've made lists (many lists.  I'm thinking of going pro.  A professional list maker); I've found a job posting that I think I might like; I put together a resume and cover letter (with much help) and applied for it!

And here is a list of the many things I have learned in the process:

Writing is a habit.  Sure, it's like riding a bike - you don't forget how to strike keys, or how to string words together, or how to use a pen.  But you might forget how to spell recieve, or what an Oxford Comma is, or the shortcut from your house to the corner store. 

Resumes are difficult.  They are more like riding a unicycle - you understand the concept and how it should look, but the physics of getting yourself up there on one wheel are kind of baffling.  Unless you ride one on a regular basis.

Some people call resumes CVs.  This is like riding a fancy Latin unicycle.

Cover letters are also difficult, but more like riding something with six wheels and two handlebars - you know where you want to go, but it seems like there are just too many parts to figure out in order to get there.

Friends are important.  They can show you their bike, and tell you why they like it.  They can help you decide if you want a road bike or a mountain bike or a tricycle.  They can warn you that the streamers on your handlebars look ridiculous.  They can ride ahead of you and make sure you don't get lost.  They can double you.  They can run behind you and hold on to the back of the seat until you get up enough speed to be on your wobbly way.  They can tell you when you've exhausted your bike riding metaphor.

347 days

So far, the most difficult part of this self-imposed search for direction is the sheer vastness of possibilities. 

I have one year of Theatre School and ten years of banking experience - that doesn't particularly qualify me for anything specific, except maybe writing a play about a man that dies, shackled to his desk, in a pool of his own blood that spilled forth from a particularly villanous hang-nail.

What it does mean, is the world is my oyster.  I could literally choose anything!  At this moment in my life, the career possibilities are endless, and it is an entirely overwhelming thought. 

I find myself considering every option.  Seriously - every option.  I got my hair cut - maybe I would enjoy being a barber?  I talked to Kate today - maybe I should be a Manager of Customer Service?  I read my book on the bus - maybe a career in publishing or transportation?  I had lunch with Scott - maybe I should go into Hotel Management or oyster farming?

So clearly, step one of my journey is going to be narrowing my focus, somehow.  I need to discover what motivates and inspires me.  What do I find rewarding and satisfying, captivating and interesting?  What do I want to do?

What do I want to do?

Such a big question.

Malchiks

A few weeks ago I reconnected, on Facebook, with a very long-lost friend from my childhood. 

Travis and I were friends from about Grade Four until the end of Grade Ten.  It was a strange group of friends - kind of like the Sandlot Gang, but with more cigarettes and pornography than baseball.  Looking back, it's a wonder that I survived it at all, and it's difficult to flip through those memories and try to find some dormant glimmer of the person I would eventually become.  It was a tumultuous time - summers full of sling-shots and ravines, firecrackers, trampolines, du Maurier king-sized lights.

But through it all there was one thing that never changed: my friendship with Travis.  The rest of it fades into the background and I am always left with this one relationship.  And even though we haven't spoken in well over a decade, I am forever thankful for it.

Somewhere in North Delta, or here in Victoria, there is a box or an album or an envelope that contains a photograph of two pink-faced boys holding two rainbow trouts.  My Grampa would have called us Malchiks - snot nosed boys.  In fact, he called us that all the time.  Now, I haven't seen this photo for years, but I know it's out there, and for some reason it's how I always remember us - our entire friendship in one picture:

A photograph of you and me standing behind a truck at the lake

How old are we here? Ten? Eleven?

Your face is dirty and dimpled,
my hair thickly curled and blonde.

I'm fat, like I always was.
You're as skinny as ever,
all lean muscle and sinew,
your small body constantly poised for flight.
Or fight - it didn't much matter back then.

I'm wearing overalls and a purple shirt,
so maybe we're only nine.
I wore those overalls for our fifth grade class photo,
one buckle undone.
You made fun of me for it.

You're wearing a Charlie Brown shirt:
striped, faded, cheap.
You were more like Snoopy, really.
I was Charlie Brown.

We both hold fish,
great-bellied rainbow trouts wrestled from the lake,
our arms outstretched, wrists up,
a finger hooked through their mouths.
My face is twisted with pain and pride - the fish is heavy.
Your face is twisted too, but that's just your smile.

Behind us, the trees wander into the Cariboo horizon.
It's those trees that matter, those trees are how I remember you:

our small legs disappearing
into the thin branches
the forts

the hideouts
the escape.

365 days

Last September, I turned thirty, and I jumped off a bridge. 

 Sure, I stood there for almost ten minutes while the tourists taunted and my friends waited impatiently/supportively for me to overcome my near-paralyzing fear of jumping off a bridge.  But I did it, eventually.

And in doing it, I learned that I can take risks, that I can overcome my own limits (of which I have set many), that I can conquer my fears (also numerous) and that it's OK to take my time when jumping off a bridge. 

I read a quote about turning thirty:  if your twenties are for finding yourself, then your thirties are for creating yourself.  This was my mantra as I jumped off the bridge (amidst the plethora of curses and prayers for safety).  "I'm thirty", I thought, "time to create myself."

So over the last year, I have put a lot of thought into it.  What do I want out of the next decade?  What do I want my life to look like as I turn forty?  It's a big question, and I have nine more years to figure it out.  Or, if I take Susan Rybar's advice and pay for the fun when I'm 41, I have ten more years to figure it out. 

But two things are certain.  In the last year, in all the soul-searching and forward-thinking that I have attempted, two things always came up:

I want a child (or children)

I want a different career.

Now, when I say I want a child, I mean we want a child.  Right, Brian?  But there's a lot more conversation and planning that need to go into that.  So I'm sure you'll be hearing more about it in the future.

The important part here, is that I want a different career.  I like my job.  there are even times when I can honestly say I love it.  The organization is wonderful, the people are incredible - it's a pretty decent gig all 'round.  But my heart is not in it, and it never will be.  And one thing I have learned about myself over many years is that it's all about my heart.  If it doesn't measure up to what's happening in my heart, then it doesn't measure up at all. 

Now this is an idea I have been tossing around for a few years, but it's time to take action.  I'm thirty, it's time to create myself!  So I have set myself a goal - one year to figure this out.  I'm not saying that in the next year I need to be firmly ensconced in a new job at a new desk, but I have 365 days to formulate a concrete plan to change this aspect of my life.

I have no idea what this will look like!  School?  Job?  Running away with the Circus?  Who knows?  But I have 364 days left to explore it!

it begins....

Those who know me, or who have worked with me, or travelled with me, or watched me cook or try to clean my house, will know that I am prone to flights of fancy. My mind wanders from one thing to the next, constantly searching for the next shiny object... And then, once I find one, I tend to fixate on it.

It happens most often with music - this weekend "My Man" was on repeat on my iPod for an entire day. The purpose? I dunno. It got me all psyched up for my show in the morning. It perfectly complimented the sunshine on my walk. I scripted, cast, directed and filmed a very touching version of it while nodding off on the couch between shows. And it was there, in my head during my monologue on stage, as Ned watches his Captain dying, "oh my man I love him so, he'll never know."

And now, a blog, to share these shiny baubles with the rest of you!