Damn Central Corp. - 10-12-08

Damn Central Corp. God damn them. Damn them for putting me through this hell. Here I am again, where I thought I would never have to be, looking at the classifieds. Again feeling totally overwhelmed by the sheer possibilities, seeing all these harmless-looking job descriptions and feeling how utterly impossible it will be to find the one job that pays what I need and will be enjoyable. Central Corp. would have met those two requirements. Just two. But they are silent, turning their eyes to their own troubles and duties and letting day after day slide by on a conveyer belt into the incinerator that leaves me blistered with misery. My days are impossibly long and hard while their days no doubt trip by, nestled as they are in a pleasant, secure atmosphere. They don’t deal with screaming, defiant, immature children or administers micro-managing them to within an inch of their lives, or 15-page lesson plans that still are never good enough, or obtuse conversations about things like how to teach reading that grow more confusing with more discussion. Central Corp. is a Mecca, and if I could just get in, I would find that all the attendant frustrations you find with any job would, every day that I’m there, still throw in drastic contrast the hell I’m in now.

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But here I sit, completely, utterly, devastatingly overwhelmed by alternatives I prayed I would never have to consider. I’m drowning in the countless words I’ll have to dredge up with a smile, dragged up from the abyss of my unhappiness, that will sell me. I can’t even contemplate the first step because I’ll inevitably lurch to the next step and the one after that, oblivious to how I’ll actually do it, how I’ll bring myself to do it. I am truly caught between a rock and a hard place because – astounding as it may seem – the prospect of this actually makes me think, maybe, I can sweat out the job I have because at least it’s one I know, and I’ve already got it. But how can that be when I’m crying every night and am pushed by week’s end to the breaking point, dissolving into soundless sobs because my hair won’t dry straight or the vacuum broke or I’ve run out of cotton balls or any number of straws that my back shouldn’t even be able to detect.

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God damn Central Corp. Financial crisis or no, I need them. They are my light at the end of my terribly dark tunnel and they are growing progressively dimmer.

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I thought yesterday as I walked through Homearama and ate heavy Italian food as I contemplated one more shitstorm from work – they’re following me home now; my weekends are no longer safe – that all this would just go away, slough off to leave me lighter than air, if that call came from Central Corp. I could put in another two weeks, cocooned from all the daily insults and miseries because they no longer apply to me and I’ll be gone soon. I would deal with the behavior and the never ending lesson plans and the observations and the constant stream of insults to my professionalism, if I could just submit that resignation letter that’s burning a hole in my hard drive. If I could have an end in mind. And as I realized that, over calzones I wasn’t even really tasting, it occurred to me that all this misery I’ve been feeling, this dreadful unhappiness, is such a stone in my belly because I have lost the sense that my release is coming. In the midst of all my joyful journal entries of my future, I have somewhere inside me on a subconscious level accepted that I have become a lifer in this prison, and that the realization that I could bear it all with lightness of heart should that call just come already! should not have come as such a surprise.

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So where does that leave me? That leaves me with God. That leaves me with one frayed line to hope: that “the universe” of the Secret cannot be so impersonal, cannot rely so exclusively on the strength and hope of an individual. We are humans; we are fallible. We do have it within us to become so overwhelmed by our circumstances that we drown in despair. And if our salvation always and only lies within us, then it has an expiration date. We will fail. We will drown sooner or later, because we are human. Our eyes can cloud over with the cataracts of our own circumstances until we cannot see the future to which we are striving. Our arms can be snapped from the weight of our own forced lightness, and our heads can explode from the effortlessness of living in that bright future. And then where are we? What is to become of us?

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The universe may be driven by the law of attraction, but it cannot be truly impersonal and permanently obedient to our thoughts. And that is where God comes in. The notion of “God” as the driving force of the Secret can be confusing, more convoluted and cumbersome to bear than the impersonal idea of “the universe,” but there are definitely those times when God is the only redeeming concept of that driving force of the Secret. For surely, surely our entire destinies do not lie within our own two hands. Surely there is a back-up plan to our own frail human natures. Surely, surely there is more to the force, waiting silently in the wings, ready to step in with independent, compassionate, concentrated thought to carry you on the instant you fall. Surely, there is more to this life than us. I believe, as I have since my introduction to the Secret, and desperately so since I went back to work, that yes, we can use the law of attraction to our benefit, as we will it, independent of a belief in “God” as the driving force. It is a law like that of gravity – it works regardless of your religious conviction. I do not believe that if you do not subscribe to a belief in the Christians’ God, he will bar you from the liberating truth of the law of attraction and prevent you from coming into the future of your dreams on your own power, simply on principle. But I have to wonder what those people do who believe only and always that the great power of the future is subject to their demands solely on the power of their own will when they have reached the end of their hope, slipped to the final threads of their tether? Perhaps they are just stronger than I am. Let it be. That could be it. I can only decide what to do for myself. And my life’s belief, buffeted as it’s been by the storms and doldrums of my life, has always borne witness – never wavering although certainly bitterly held at times – that at the end of me is God. I always believed he was my Alpha, but I often forget he is my Omega. Hating my own weakness, or accepting my own many inevitable ends, this has always been my belief.

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And now I grip to that belief with cramped, clammy fingers: it must be so. It must, it must. There must be more to my future and my salvation than my own strength and hope, because if there isn’t I am done for. I will keep spiraling downward with no thought from myself to arrest the flow and redirect it upwards. There must be hands bigger than my own, driven by their own will and sentience, that catch me when there is no hope left in me that can explain the abrupt change in direction. Salvation must come. It must, it must, it must. And yes, that salvation could come from all the months I invested in thinking positively and believing in the future I was drawing to me, but I believe that is another interpretation of our faith being credit, that we can store up faith and even when we lose it, it can sustain us and bring good things like drawing on your savings when you’ve lost your job and cannot deposit any more. It’s tight and doesn’t feel good, relying on a static store of money when you know you are not currently capable of adding more to the account. But I think this is all part of God’s truth. So yes, my salvation may come on the wheels of all those weeks and months of faith I invested before I lost hope and joy, but it will be hands other than my own pulling the lead. And it must come. It must. And it must come quickly. Come to me. Rush to my side. Hurry to save me. Race to scoop me up from the waters, for I am drowning, and soon I will have a nervous breakdown and I don’t even know what that looks like but it will have me soon if you don’t fly to me. Come quickly to save me. Be pleased to come to me and pick me up. Give me strength and hope and light. Come.

Facing the Truth - 10-11-08

Never as much of a journal writer as I always wanted to be, I nevertheless have become one in the past week, writing beautiful entries as accounts of the way I want my life to be, to activate the Secret and bring my spirit to actually make the Secret work for me. And they are lovely accounts of that life, liberating in ways I could not have imagined. I always had in my head the picture of the future I wanted, but – though I was doubtful in the beginning – I have begun to see just how much more powerful it is to put it into words, to phrase it into reality.

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But this entry, my heart is full – full to the brim with misery and dread and dreadful unhappiness, and I must make a plea that for a time, I be allowed to feel my present in the midst of my concentrated efforts to bring about my future.

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I am breaking apart. I am dying inside. The whole of my waking hours is oppressed by the horrible circumstances that press down on my sore head. I wake every morning with a headache, and I have devolved to finding comfort in the tiniest things. I have always found pleasure and happiness, joy and satisfaction in the small pleasures of life, always believing that they are the only ones guaranteed you. But in this fraught time I have become a person of small things. I carry around my makeup just to know it’s there. I use my emollient hand cream to excess because the scent is one I associate with my books and music. I must read every night – not because, as before, it has become habit – but because it is my chief pleasure now. My eyes seek out the moon on my nightly runs because it soothes my throbbing soul. I keep my music on all day at work to be in a way a subtle escape, that sense of escape that comes from the mere promise of it.

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I have fallen to weeping at night, crying in the bathroom at school, not smiling at work. People come up when I think I’m doing an admirable job of acting normal, and just hug me. I am unable to escape this brooding, unbending sense of being trapped. And all the words I write to refocus my mind on my future, in the end, become again mere words, squiggles on the page that won’t stand still as I frantically scrabble for serenity because I’ve lost the focus it takes to simply rise into it.

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I have found myself relying on my “God” distinction of the Secret rather than “the universe,” my trials cutting through the baggage I kept lugging around toward God. Thinking of the Secret as “God” often felt too confusing, and everything became clearer when I simply thought of it as “the universe.” It has certainly occurred to me that the reason I must endure this valley of shadows that seems destined never to end is so that I could see God more clearly and depend up on him again. That’s fine. I don’t fight it. I recall as I write these words – I’d forgotten – that before all hell broke loose, before I could see my breaking point within whispering distance, I had thought with quiet resignation that if I could use the Secret for anything, it would be to find God and have a true, unwavering relationship with him. As I spoke those words, I could not fathom how that could happen, and even now as I write these words with new knowledge and possible understanding, I wonder if – should this indeed be the purpose of this misery – it can ever even last. How many times in my life has God been the glue holding me together or has God showered me with blessings and the soft heart that follows, only to find that the way grows cold beneath my feet and I can no longer find him? No, I don’t know that this newfound dependence on God – desperately powerful – will yield a permanent sense of intimacy. Yes, emotions change, and I understand that, but the distance between us historically has always been filled with more silence than that. Too, I’ve often thought in the past few days, as this possible purpose of this time has occurred to me, that God could be breaking me apart so I will be drawn closer to him in preparation for meeting my mate. God, how many times have I interpreted a truth or an experience of my life as preparing me for an immediate meeting with my future? The words all but drag out of me. But the indisputable fact remains that I feel that blessed event is closer than ever because of the Secret. But be that as it may: I can’t know the purpose yet of this time of darkness and pain, misery and tears.

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What I do know is that I don’t fight it, whatever the purpose may be. I rail against God when it seems like too much, then the next morning I wake with thanks for my blessings, too few but precious, on my lips. I bow my head before him and a few hours later, plead with all my heart for him to rush, to hurry to save me. I am a puzzle of contradictions, and I bear the pieces honestly and openly. My analysis has been stymied somehow, I’ve noticed, over the last weeks, and I don’t mind it. I think in slow, hazy abstraction of the whys and wherefores of this unhappiness, but my hands hang loose by my sides, free from their fists. Let him have his purposes. I don’t care what they may be or where they take me, as long as he comes quickly to save me, as David prayed.

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For I am breaking apart and my eyes are clouded over with sadness. I have no joy left and feel the sweetness of showing others my vulnerability. I stand here among the shards of my life, the myriad pieces of my dreams and my happiness, and mutely survey the damage done. What pieces can be put back together and what pieces are to be discarded forever, I can’t say. I am lonely, and cold all the time. I stand here with nothing to say that will make any difference but burn with the words that won’t be said. I am here. I must be rescued or I will break. I am here.

Visualization Entry - In the Night - 10-11-08

There are so many more worthwhile things to do than write in this journal, things that are more intriguing to do right here, right now, with such possibilities laying asleep beside me. But my heart is full and I must preserve this moment. I must say all that had gone unsaid for so many years because it hadn’t been true yet.

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He lays here beside me, flung out in sleep, his deep breathing like a life support machine for me. I glance over and am arrested by his throat. If I keep very still, and look very carefully, I can detect his pulse softly, subtly throbbing under his skin. It fascinates me. He is so still that if I closed my eyes, I might almost believe I lie here alone. But no, I could still scent him out, still detect his heat reaching my skin.

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He is so beautiful to my eyes. I smile when I think how his hair will be odds and ends tomorrow morning. But then I lose interest in his hair as I study his collarbone, so strong. The line of it runs across his shoulders and chest, drawing my willing eye across his breadth.

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He stirs in his sleep, disturbed probably by the lamplight, and shifts my way. My heart splutters as his hand unconsciously settles on the small of my back and my breathing grows erratic as his heat spreads on my skin. Oh, yes, there are many more worthwhile things I could be doing right now. I’m so crazy in love that I wonder how I can keep still and just observe, just absorb. But that’s always been my way. I naturally fall still and silent, and let my brain grow thick with my thoughts, just letting my eyes rove as my breathing steadies into an almost sleep-like rhythm.

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I look so hard at him. I’m learning him, and not just him, but us and me. Who needs sleep?

Visualization Entry - Freedom - 10-10-08

Some days I am just captured all over again by my good fortune. I think back to my teaching job, that horrible start to my fifth year. The behavior problems, the sheer number of below grade level students, the drastic change in atmosphere from the year before, the inexorable banding together of the staff in the face of a common enemy in Sherry, the impossible increase in paperwork and expectation of teacher performance. Just a perfect storm, with all the elements coming together at the same time to make a truly miserable time for me.

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I think back on that time and remember the slow, steady influx of the toxicity of my work life creeping into my personal life, tainting everything I had that I swore would never be tainted by my job: my evenings, my runs in my beloved neighborhood, the very walls of my gorgeous new home which had heretofore only had positive associations from summer. I consider all the nights I wept, truly sobbed, even coming to my parents and breaking down more, I think, than they’ve ever seen me. Lord bless them, but they handled it well. I remember desperately using the Secret and expending so much of what little energy I had in being positive and trying to deny the tears that were sogging up my brain. My sweet team members tried whenever they saw me starting to dive in spite of my best efforts, to bring me up with kind words, long hugs, and understanding looks. They were really the only bright spot in the whole of my professional life. I had to always have my music going on my computer throughout the day just to survive. The downward spiral was slow, almost imperceptible but uncompromising. I went from being angry at these circumstances to gritting my teeth and bearing them, to becoming sad and despairing, breaking down at work and at home. I really was nearing the breaking point and began to suspect that I would go the way of Analiese in her first year and have a nervous breakdown and have to be medicated and put on a week’s medical leave.

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And then the sky broke open and manna fell down. On a dizzying rush, I got the call I had been waiting for, put in my two-weeks notice, started my new job, and met the man of my dreams! I’m still processing it, actually, and what I find helps me to process it is reflecting back on how bad and hopeless everything seemed and then how very suddenly all of that changed, turned on its ear, but in a very, very good way. I felt like my whole life, the life I was trying to attract, was contingent upon that call, upon leaving that dreaded school forever.

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And here I sit, writing with an aching arm instead of getting ready for a date that I’m actually – wait for it – excited about, marveling at how my dreaded present so drastically, so dramatically, and so very suddenly became my past.

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I don’t ever have to be there again. I don’t ever have to write another lesson plan or mini-referral. I don’t ever have to grade another paper, fill out another Child Study form, or hold another parent conference. No more interim reports or report cards. No more insults to my professionalism or printing limits. No more staying late to get everything done. No more reading groups and think-alouds or PALS or STARS or comprehension strategies or math manipulatives or lunch and recess duties! I am free and I don’t ever have to go back. I spontaneously break into a smile on my way to work, not only because I’m going somewhere pleasant where I have a reasonable chance of feeling successful and like I’m making progress, but also because I am free and rid forever of that horrible place, that horrible job, that horrible profession. I breathe now. I breathe in and out all day and never feel like I’m about to choke. God, it feels so good to be free!! My life has finally begun! Now, where is that lipstick?

Visualization Entry - One Big, Happy Family - 10-10-08

My parents and I have always said that surely no family laughs so much as we do. Within five minutes of getting together, we are cracking up. I mean it literally takes about ten minutes before we are hysterical. And we keep laughing until we part company, and that is true even if we’re closeted with each other for a solid week. I don’t quite know what it is, but I think it has something to do with how much we enjoy being happy, and how much we enjoy harmony. We have all three of us been very considerate of each other’s feelings, and when we hurt or offend one of the other’s feelings, as is inevitable in a thirty-year relationship, we apologize and forgive very quickly because, quite frankly, we don’t like being mad at each other. I’ve often noticed other people who seem almost to take pleasure in being offended and will hold to a grudge until they can’t even remember the reason. And I’ve always been grateful that my family has never been like that.

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And I’ve often wondered how another person could fit in with us. We have always been such a happy threesome, sharing a brain and truly understanding one another, cognizant of our individual identities as well as our collective identity and as joyful as that has made me, I have also felt an adjacent anxiety that my husband couldn’t possibly fit because he wasn’t raised for decades with this.

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Now, I could never imagine anyone not falling in love with my parents. All stereotypes and hellish stories of in-laws disappear like so much ether when my parents are the in-laws. I always knew that anyone I brought home would be charmed by my parents simply because I had brought him home, so he must be special. And even though my parents, as innately private as they are, wouldn’t show the full force of their personalities to a virtual stranger, they are simply incapable of not charming others. And then when the familiarity had grown and the walls had come down a bit more, I knew that my husband would simply fall in love with my family. This was always the only logical picture I had in my head, as I knew I would never choose someone whom my parents disliked since we were of one mind in so many things, the most important of which was what sort of person we admired, respected, and wanted around us, and also because I knew I would always be guaranteed of my parents loving and welcoming with open arms anyone I brought home because they would want wholeheartedly for me to be happy.

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So I never worried about my family, snug and small as it was, opening up and welcoming new additions, but I did always wonder how well my husband would fit. Would he understand the jokes and thought processes and little idiosyncrasies that so uniquely define and characterize my little family?

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I probably should have realized long ago that as my parents and I are so alike, and I would only fall in love with someone who truly understood and accepted me, that it would naturally follow that he would understand my parents. So much of what he would love about my came directly from my parents. If a = b and b = c, then a = c. and this is precisely what did happen when I finally found my soul mate and brought him into my family. But what is so astonishing, although in hindsight not surprising, was just as he brought his own unique personality to me, so too did he do that with my parents. No, he is not exactly like me. Of course not. But he understands me as no one else does and loves me as no one else does. And what I find is that he is still himself with my parents, confident from the beginning in who he is, not nervous about “meeting the parents” (although who ever had such an easy sell as my parents who were near to choking with satisfaction at the sight of me with someone I loved). And I find that as lovely and perfect as the three of us were, such a pleasant, harmonious little trio, that dynamic only flourished and was enhanced with my husband’s addition to the piece. Our trio swelled to a quartet, with the addition of a brand new instrument, without ever missing a beat. Mozart himself would have been brought to tears. I’m constantly astounded every time the four of us are together, at how sweet we all are. I always knew I would be drawn to a calm, mature, easy-going man. Never one for drama or touchy mentalities, I have always gravitated to people who are mature and sure enough in themselves that they don’t need to create or respond to melodrama. And sure enough, my husband, as different as he is from me in many ways, is my perfect match in that respect. And so the four of us are just, in a word, sweet.

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And I have a confession to make. I was always leery of parading your mate in front of others as if to say, “Look how well I did for myself,” and I still feel that way, but is it so wrong that I think exactly that of my choice of man? I do! I confess that whenever we’re with friends or family of mine, my chest swells till I think a rib will snap that this man is with me, his hand at my back and his eyes on my face.

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I’ve lost count of how many people have said since we met what a catch he is, how wonderful he is, how handsome he is, how lucky I am, how happy I must be. And I can’t hold back the smile splitting my face as every cell in my body agrees. So it is with a secret delight, when he and I are having breakfast with my parents or playing board games or going to a festival, every single glance he casts my way, every word rumbled into my ear, every unthinking touch, every time I tilt my chin to say something to him or kiss him, my parents nearly bust.

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You see, they have never seen me with a man. Never seen anyone pay me particular mind, seen anyone kiss me. They’ve never heard a man say something under his breath just for me to hear, never witnessed any intimacy of any sort between me and a man. And with the two of them being so happily and deeply in tune for so long, in drastic contrast to the sheer drought of intimacy in my life, they wanted so much for me to experience that. Now I have that. And I absolutely revel in others’ pleasure in seeing me have that. It’s as if there was always a bubble of space around me that was never punctured, never shared, never touched, so much so that everyone else in my life couldn’t even picture me with someone else, as much as they may have wanted to, because they had never known that for me. And now, that space is shared. I’m no longer alone. I fit with them and even though I want him for him, it is much easier to just fit in with everyone else. I’ve always been a bit of a lone wolf, running with whatever pack is around that strikes my fancy, and it’s a good think I have developed the self-confidence it takes to go my own way, because I could feel like a freak. But it is much nicer not to have to draw on that store of confidence on a daily basis. It’s all a non-issue now, so that now I can just enjoy what I have. I have finally joined the human race.

Visualization Entry - Intertwined Hands - 10-6-08

I wonder if, when my life is at its shadowy end and I have the completed manuscript of my life tidily placed before me, this will be the thing I hold the closest to my heart: the feel of my hand in his, the freedom of touching that big, warm hand anytime I like. Of all the experiences of my life, all the touches I was privy to, if this simple, basic touch will be the defining one. This one touch seems to hold in its modest sway all contentment and safety, the physical representation of that for which we all strive. I waited so long for it, too; that probably has something to do with the affection I have for that touch.

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In its own way, the sight of our skin touching, our fingers intertwined, is like a train wreck; I can’t take my eyes off of it. I keep glancing back at this sign to which, after all this time, I still have not become accustomed. My hand practically disappears in his wide grasp. He whispers to me he can feel all the bones of my hand, feel the tiny warmth of my palm against the vast heat of his. He’s always fascinated by the smallness of my hand, the softness of my skin, the delicacy of my wrist. I think he notices our entwined hands almost as much as me.

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It seems to me so fitting, so perfectly and unexpectedly matched, that he should harbor the same fascination with my smallness and delicacy that I feel for his tall frame and strength. I think sometimes that I will never know – when we pick up the same object – precisely how much easier it is for him than me. If I pick up a stuffed suitcase, how is it that I labor under it while he hoists it in the air like Popeye? It intrigues me. Sometimes I wonder what it must be like to have all that strength to spare. And I’m strong for a woman! But I can’t mind. The heat that flares out from my chest when I see another sign of his strength, especially when framed by his gentleness, is too delicious.

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And I can’t help but smile when he shows me that strength just to impress me. It’s too sweet-natured a display to be considered arrogant, too self-deprecating to be defined as showing off. It’s just the same thing I feel when asking him to open a jar or move a piece of furniture when out of necessity I did it myself for thirty years. It’s just so nice to have someone to do it for you, just as I imagine for him, it’s so nice to have someone to be strong for. We both win.

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I go still sometimes with secret delight when I see just how strong he is, so much stronger than me, his strength so much more effortless than my own, and then he takes my hand and I can feel how safe I am from that strength, and how safe I am made by that strength.

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I’ve often thought that while few men can be as fierce as a woman in certain circumstances, when her mate or cub is threatened, nevertheless, it is man’s lot to be the protectors. It’s nice that it is not their exclusive domain, but they are the natives while we women are migrants. I’ve wondered idly what it is in men’s makeup that defines this protective urge and in turn is defined by it. Where precisely does that instinct reside? What part or pathway marks its place?

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Sometimes, I admit, his protectiveness of me chafes. After all, I had been independent for so many years before he came to me. Only my father had shown that protective instinct for me, and I could draw the boundary line with that when I moved out. But this protectiveness is different because I have to negotiate it, grow familiar with it. And, too, I can’t dismiss it when I’m feeling bold and independent as I could do with the protectiveness of others. I am no longer my own. I promised that when I let him slip his ring on my finger. He has a right no one else has ever had, even my father, to set boundaries of his own for me not to cross. It’s one of the sacrifices I took on when I joined my life to his. And I can’t resent him for it on those occasions when the very protectiveness I cherish limits me; I would expect the same heed if he did something I felt truly threatened him, and I asked him not to do it again. He is not his own, either, any more than I am mine.

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It seems to me that as you have what I would consider a real life, and go deeper down its path, you commit to certain obligations which increase in number or intensity as time in that life goes on. You’re free as a bird when you’re trekking, alone, but you’re also alone. Then you commit to one other person and you can still be free and take risks, but you have opened yourself up to certain potential promises. After all, no one wants to open themselves up to someone who may kill themselves with idiocy or carelessness. But essentially, you are still your own person in many ways. And then you have children and you now have something even more needful than each other to keep yourself alive for. And the risks necessarily become tighter and fewer. It’s a necessary loss. Some people let their perspective become clouded by all they gave up when they committed to sharing a life with someone, but I wonder if their unhappiness originates in the imbalance they slowly embrace. Yes, you have to live more carefully and more considerately, but what you get in return is a witness to your whole life. Someone who is making the same sacrifices as you who isn’t complaining about it because they understand they get tenfold what they are laying on the altar of their selfishness. They value their life with you more than all they trade for it. I wonder if maybe sometimes people are so willfully blinded by trees they’ve cut down to make room for the person they love that they miss the vast forest they are planting with them. I don’t know. I can’t say. I only know my own perspective and I waited so long for him that it’s not so impossible for me to balance my perspective when I see his face. Sure, sometimes I have to be more careful than I would like to be, but then I remember it’s because he cares so much for me.

Reflection on my first Visualization Entry - 10-5-08

Writing and then reading that entry of the bliss I want is, perhaps, the entire reason why the stars aligned so that I would be here, now, when I had come to the breaking point with my job. It somehow puts everything in a more complete perspective. Maybe this is the final frontier of making the Secret work for me. Putting down on paper not just a list of qualities I want in a mate, but an account of what my life is right now in my future which on some foreign plane is a current reality – it all snapped my spinning life back into focus. This is what I truly want. This is what the Secret is ultimately about for me – so that I can attract my perfect mate when I see that picture my pen described – so clear and strong in my head – my job just pales in significance, fades in comparison to the vividness of my true dream. Maybe my job doesn’t have to take over my life. Maybe it is just the residue of my past and doesn’t have to even really exist for me now. I see now with renewed clarity what my priorities are – and they begin with my perfect mate. I can see now what it means to live in the future you’re attracting. I’m already there. My job suddenly seems awfully brief. It will not – cannot – last long. It is – I see now – in its last dying gasps. And maybe finally I see the key to being able to live out that quote which I felt signified my life right now but seemed at the same time out of my reach to live out:

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And what is it

to work with love?

It is to build

a house with affection,

Even as if your beloved

were to dwell there.

- Gibran

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Maybe I can return to work the day after tomorrow, not with dread or misery or the agony of unmet desire for another life, but with the peace of a more complete perspective. Maybe I can go back and face conferences and reading groups and planning templates and observations and behavior, and hold around me like a cloak this peace. Perhaps as long as I keep reading that account of my life as it will be, as if it is already here, I can remember that this job, these circumstances, are – as the Psalm says – “to be cut down like the grass and wither as the green herb.” I’m not here anymore; I am there, in the future I so fervently desire and believe in again. I had begun losing hope; it had started to flicker like a bulb about to go out, but this place. Today, this afternoon, I thought about how it was all going to be over soon, but then my next thought was that there was still a whole day left. And that there was a reason this vacation was four days long and not three or two. That there was more still to be thought and grasped. I felt there was still more for me to discover here. The hours I had left had a purpose, and sure enough, here I sit, with mere hours before we wake up and leave for home, beginning the long journey back to the life I left on “pause,” and all the hours that came before in this lovely remote place have in truth been subtly, quietly pushing to a particular conclusion. This then is the purpose for this whole trip, different than I’d thought it but so much more potent than I could have expected. Here, then, is the key to survival, to working with love at something I hate. And the God I am so often angry at shows me again that he does see me and has not forgotten his promise.