More than hopeful

I'm positively giddy.

It's been months since I've felt this way. The puzzle of life seems to be in a piecing-itself-together phase instead of the more maddening throw-it-on-the-floor-and-stomp-angrily-on-it phase.

We finally finished the chicken coop (in the city!) with a run in the backyard attached to a "hen house" in the garage. We have four feathered, clucking, and soon-to-be-egg laying hens in the backyard. They're of various breeds and make a very pretty flock. Their individual personalities are charming. Below is one of my favorites, (am I allowed to have a favorite?) Clara. She's not particularly bright, but she's very curious and loves to be held and fed by hand.



I finally landed a job. As P said, "It's about fucking time someone realized how great you are." Thank you, P. It's not a life changing or particularly stimulating job, but it has wonderful hours (my first "nine to fiver" kind of job) and the boss actually offered me a decent wage. He seems to be a genuine guy. Hopefully this holds true. At the very least, this will literally buy me some time to figure something else out.

I checked on my application status for the UofM today. It simply said, "We've made a decision and have sent you a letter." What good is an application status report if it doesn't actually tell you what the deal is?! Hopefully the good luck continues and the letter tomorrow doesn't rain on my shining and thrilling parade.

I got a package in the mail from a place I had applied to and interviewed with a long time ago. They sent me a pound of coffee and a rather thoughtful rejection letter. Seeing as how I've landed some other employment, this was like icing on the cake. Being turned down never felt, smelled, or tasted so good.

Since the conversation with my new boss offering me something to do on the weekdays, I have had three call backs on other jobs I had applied to. It's forever true - when it rains, it pours.

I made spring rolls tonight and they were delicious in fresh-from-the-garden mint and basil-y kind of way. I botched the peanut sauce and then fixed it. I was impressed if I do say so myself.

P and I are going out for a celebration dessert, dinner, and activity on Friday. I'm a-goin' fishin' with P and his parents at a local trout farm on Saturday. And next week we head north to visit mi papa and join the herds at the Winnipeg Folk Festival. When we return, all deaf and crispy from the sun, I start the new job.

I am so ready for this new chapter.

Let the games begin.

Let it be Known

I need to document this moment.

I feel hopeful.

These past few months have been a long series of frustrations, general malaise and (dare I say it?) depression.

This is a time of transition. I've spent the last few years bumming around, novel job to novel job, picking up various skills like farming, mechanical know-how, bits of languages, cooking...

I've travelled, taught myself to knit, become SCUBA certified, rode bikes drunk around the big city in the middle of the night with dozens of like-minded people. I've worked to "get out the vote." Developed long standing and endearing relationships with lots of children. Watched the family get bigger. Watched my father's health deteriorate and stabilize, deteriorate and stabilize. Helped P with home-brewing. Hell, met P and created a relationship that might just last awhile.

I've had it good. Really, I have. After a long, abusive and unstable childhood I created my own fantastical early adulthood filled with adventure and dreams-come-true. It has been all I had hoped for during those awful childhood hours where I had no control.

But now comes the other part of those hoped-for childhood ambitions: a stable life. A solid relationship. A house with a huge garden, a magical, whimsical one if I have my say. A fulfilling career. A conscientious approach and a modest ecological footprint.

With the recent failing job search, a dwindling bank account, a tough economy, and little education I've felt as if Part II is impossible. It has seemed as if those long, bony fingers of fate were going to wrap their iron fists around my dream and send me packing to McDonald's with an application waving desperately in my hand. "You've had your fun," the voice would cackle, "And you're mine now! The apple never falls far from the tree and you're going to end up just like those who birthed you."

My father has been divorced six times. He elderly and ailing, living alone in a sparse trailer on property owned by my aunt and uncle. He cannot drive or even walk to the mailbox. He owns little and survives on the grace of 26 medications daily. It seems he's lucky to have served in the armed forces. At least his substantial medical bills are covered.

My mother has struggled every day of her life. By some force or another everything seems more complicated in her presence. Her motherly vibe isn't one of peace and stability, it is one of turbulence and interminable frustration. Everything is a battle in her life, and they can never be won or simply lost. She must fight, continually.

I want something different, something more. And thus far I've been able to realize my hopes. But until this moment, anything more has seemed a pipe dream. But this is where I come to this moment.

I have hope. For the first time in months I feel a flickering, a burning, a daring to think bigger.

It must be documented. I will need to return to this moment. I've made it so far and I can make Part II happen. I will.

Sunday Scribblings - Spicy

I went off to college with little culinary ability besides my famous hot pot version of Kraft Cheesy Macaroni. Two years later I quit college because I wanted to learn to cook.

Well, that wasn't the only reason I quit, but it was a major determining factor.

I've always craved big, bold flavors like fantastically spicy salsas, enchanting curries, and oatmeal cookies with three times more cinnamon than the recipe dictates. When I discovered fresh ground pepper I also discovered I liked, no loved, pepper. The paltry powder of my previous life was never worthy of consumption. But fresh ground pepper is the gateway to paradise.

After leaving school I also left home, got a crummy job in a large retail store for a barely livable wage, and a tiny ten-foot by ten-foot efficiency. Boy, it was efficient - less than ten steps from the far corner kitchen sink to the opposite corner toilet.

I had few friends and no social life. I remember those days, nights, in my brightly lit tin-box of a kitchen experimenting with spices. I wanted to unlock the secret of Indian curries, call forth the symphony of Thai coconut curries, steep myself in homemade cinnamon teas.

I remember the first time I cracked a pod of green cardamom with my new mortar and pestle. The sharp, stringent aroma a dazzling slap in the face. I remember carefully toasting cumin seeds and letting the scent coat my clothes and hair. I remember the first sharp bite of fennel seeds in one of my first wildly successful cooking experiments - dhal. I gleefully, albeit gluttonously, ate the whole pot. I remember slowly (as the strictly saved pennies allowed) stocking a spice pantry and noting with satisfaction that everything was whole. I would grind it all myself, as needed.

I remember creating recipes, slowly discovering how spices flirted, danced and warred with each other in dishes and drinks. I remember toasting (and burning) them and wallowing in their magnificence. I remember when I learned, with astonishment, that cinnamon wasn't inherently sweet. Neither was cardamom or nutmeg. They could all be used in savory dishes as well.

And it never gets old. How fresh toasted cumin or simmering cinnamon sticks make me salivate. How coriander seeds crack so satisfactorily in the marble morter. The subtle tones of saffron that leave a faint hint on the fingers. How dill marries a fried egg so well. The beautiful ridges and hollows of whole star anise. How fresh parsley and garlic top the dried a thousand times over anyday. Spices (and herbs), my dear, are the spice of life. We are, after-all, what we eat.

And I think I'm finally ready to go back to college. I submitted an application last week.

Everyday is Friday the 13th

Still no job.

And no real prospects. Even though I've sent out dozens of resumes and cover letters.

I feel like I've accidentally typed a bold, capitalized F*CK YOU on top of my resume. I mean there must be some reason why employment is eluding me so persistently.

Oh world, why are you conspiring against me? When will my luck turn? I'm becoming very superstitious, sighing gratefully when I find a head-up quarter or see a rainbow. "This must be it," I think, "my luck is changing."

So far it's just superstition and it's not working.

The State of My Soul

Job hunting is a soul stealing enterprise. I've lost all motivation. I stay at home, cuddle up with a quilting project and dear old Netflix as a perfect spring day rolls by outside. It's depressing. More accurately, I'm depressing.

I'm easily irritated, often insulted, and generally downbeat. Getting one thing done each day feels like a major accomplishment. I have lists of phone calls to return and my desire to connect with anyone is so low I'd rather sit and home and feel guilty about not calling them instead of just doing it.

It's not that I'm against unemployment. I'm not and theoretically, I LOVE unemployment. I have hobbies coming out my ears and, with no job, all the time in the world to do them. But it's spring and spring has meant farm work or fixing bikes. Winter is for bunking down or heading out of town. In my yearly cycle, spring means money and my bank account is not very green these days. I'm suppressing a slowly rising panic that reminds me if I don't make money now, I'll be stuck in a dreary MN winter, and my blood runs a little cooler just thinking about it.

Further bristling my whiskers in the general sense that I'm stuck, that I lack control over my life. And, to some degree this is true. It's not the whole truth, but it needn't be in order to make me (somewhat unfairly) peevish. I'm living with my brother and SIL, their two year old twin boys, their dog and cat. It's a smallish house and things are cozy. I often pee in the laundry tub downstairs and it can take a few days of stratigizing to get a timely shower or my clothes washed. This does not bother me so much. Afterall, the place is very affordable (no cash changes hands) and makes being unemployed a thousand and one times less stressful than it would be otherwise. They company is good and I adore seeing the boys everyday. The dog drives me a little nuts and the cat can be frightening vicious, but also sweetly adorable with the softest fur. What drives me the most crazy sometimes is just that I lack any real control over my space. More specifically, I suppose, is just the fact that I don't have real space. The house isn't mine, the yard isn't mine, and most of the decisions aren't mine. I love to bake bread, but my SIL is gluten-intolerant and baking, therefore, is out of question. In theory I could do it, but it would require such attention to deal and careful time strategies that it doesn't really seem worth it. On a shitty day of unemployment there is nothing really I'd rather do than turn up the stereo, block out the world, and make a giant and through mess of the kitchen. To laboriously prepare an unreasonably large batch of chicken soup, starting with water and a chicken carcass, plump full of scratch dumplings with some of them perhaps falling from the ceiling. But given that there are five people sharing a small kitchen, two of them on toddler-eating-schedules (i.e. like five times a day with a present adult to orchestrate the events) any cooking needs to be neatly contained, toddler friendly (no knives left carelessly at the edge of the counter, no front burners when boys are present, etc) and carefully cleaned up afterwards. It is, afterall, not my kitchen, and leaving dirty pans on the stove or a bowl on the counter is not particularly courteous. In addition, three of the other inhabitants are vegetarians. One of the little boys has a possible peanut allergy. If I cook onions, I must be careful about proper ventilation so the house doesn't stink all night. I worry about this an extra measure simply because I do not have a very good nose. I have been around small children with reeking pants and not noticed. My SIL, however, once walked into the house hours after I purchased about a tablespoon of asafetida which has been put in a zip-lock in the basement and said, "Is there asafetida in the house?" And all my grievances are minor compared the benefits of being here. But the little things have just been grating harder lately. I suppose because my general stress level is up.

The other factor is the bf, a charming and thoughtful fellow I'll call P. P is great, amazing even. We've been together over a year and he's started dropping not-so-subtle-hints that he could be with me, well, forever. To my surprise, this does not alarm me as much as I thought it would given my cold feet and fear of commitment. In fact, I can hardly imagine life without P anymore. And, shockingly, I don't really want to. This is the first relationship where I haven't either been plotting how to get out or being terrified that he was thinking that very thing. It's smooth, functional, comfortable. There is no drama. Just the way I like it. But that means all my remaining decisions are also not my own. What about P? I want to give the job industry a big middle finger and hop my bike and ride to Maine to visit some friends. But what about P? I want to take the next flight to Ireland and stay on some farm for a few months working for room and board. But what about P? I want to go back to Thailand, get my Dive-Master certification, become and instructor, and live on a tropical island for a few years. But what about P? Now I have to stay here and that means finding, and accepting, some crappy ass job.

But it's not just P. It's my ailing father. Everytime I leave for more than a weekend I expend vast amounts of mental energy worrying about dad. Worrying I won't be able to get back if something happens, trying to always be kind of near an airport so I rush to norther MN should conditions warrant.

But it's not just that, either. My sister just had a baby. My nephews just turned two and I'm starting to think that they love me almost as much as I love them. I think about them all the time when I'm away. It's the fact that I've worked oh, so very hard to have a family, a community here. I've found it, settled in, made myself valuable. It would downright stupid to drop it all.

So here I sit. Job options are grim and possibilities for leaving are nil. I have little control over my space and instead of feeling claustrophobic by the fact that my entire living space is hemmed in by floor-to-ceiling books that don't belong to me, I nestle in, made a little mess, and crawl into it. Somedays I hardly come out at all. Spring is passing me by and I don't have the energy to enjoy it.

It sucks. It's lame. I'm frustrated and there is no one to blame. Always one to accept a little more guilt I would say I'm to blame, but I'm not really. Well, I am. Had I stayed in school like a good girl I probably would a have a degree now and better job prospects. Instead I spent my time doing other, equally valuable things, they just don't pay as well. But that's another post.

Night,
Megs

Turn off the Computer and Go To BED

Do you ever get the feeling that you're doomed? Not "doomed" in any specific sense, like you'll die tomorrow. Just a black haze that can mean nothing but general, life-wide disaster. I hate moments like these.

I think, for me anyway, it's mostly just a sign that my body is tired and my mind is exhausted. I'll sleep it off and feel better in the morning. But could it, does it, mean anything?

Deflated

I have never had to look so hard for employment. Ever. I've always been a few steps ahead of myself with plans spanning the horizon, not jumping ship until the next stage was ready to launch. It worked great. I was willing to accept rather sucky and poorly paying jobs simply because someone was willing to pay me to learn a few things I was dying to learn. They accepted my curious novice status, I accepted a meagre paycheck for the privilege paid learning. It was awesome and eventually, through careful budgeting and frugal spending, paid my way through months and hard, draining, colorful, spectacular, unbelievable months of overseas travel. An absolute and long-standing dream realized, a burning itch scratched, a hopefully lifetime journey finally launched. But my long lists of two and five year plans aren't working so well anymore.

I knew this was coming. I could sense it at the farm even two years ago. I had quit school with the goal of working and travelling and learning a few things along the way. And I did. I became, fulfilling a minor dream, a bike mechanic. I, partially satisfying a nagging curiosity, worked on an organic farm for a while. I absorbed an unfathomable amount of information during the past five or so years. I now know a dozen kinds of wrenches - and how to use them. I've taught myself to knit and quilt. I can build bicycle wheels, straighten bent frames, and adjust any derallieur with the best of 'em. I've read hundreds of cookbooks and can make anything from gluten free pies, endless stir-fries, a half dozen risottos, baguettes. Seeing as how I grew up on TV Dinners and I had never before purchased fresh produce before I was an adult, I consider this a major accomplishment.

The past five years have been a blast. Bunnyholes heading off in a dozen directions and enough enthusiasm to chase them all to their ends. I could hardly go fast enough, learn quick enough, read enough, try enough new recipes or ethnic grocery stores.

But I must admit I'm sick of shitty paychecks. I'm tired of moving every few months on the tail of a new occupation. Of never unpacking all my hard-won kitchen stuff and using those baguette pans again. The life of the nomad is romantic. And exhausting. A bone wearying exhaustion.

I said in the beginning I'd do this until it wasn't fun anymore. The trips are still fun and I still have trip ideas bursting out of my brain - a self supported bike tour to Maine, months WWOOFing in Ireland, France, Spain and Greece, a bike tour through New Zealand, more SCUBA in Thailand. I could go on until the cows come home. But it's the in-between stuff that's not fun anymore. I'm tired of living in crowded boxes full of boxes, of riding a bike all through sloppy frigid MN winters, of always buying the least expensive item of dinner menus.

Most importantly, I'm tired of the nonexistence of opportunities for someone of my skill set. First, I'm a woman, with no secretarial training, and that leaves few options for the under educated. I'm a bike mechanic by trade with some experience in organic farming and nanny work. There is no room for advancement, little room for growth. It seems like all that's left is to keep doing exactly what I have been doing - fixing flat tires or picking broccoli or changing diapers. It's not that there aren't jobs to be had, it's just that I don't want to do any of them. I'm experiencing a general malaise, an over arching unhappiness with the situation I've created for myself. It's time to think in new directions and that keeps pointing one direction - back to school. Eeeek. But even that has no guarantees. Most of the people I've worked with in shops were doing the exact same thing I was doing for the same paycheck - only they had degrees. Let me tell you, there's not a lot of motivation for taking on more debt simply to prove I can do it. But I'm tired of my other options. Are there more opportunities I'm missing here because I feel really, really stuck.

I want a house. I want a garden - a big ass garden - and chickens. I want to comb the farmer's markets and freeze enough locally grown tomatoes, peppers, broccoli, leeks, sweet corn, blueberries, and strawberries to get me through the long winter months. I want some predictability, some continuity, some stability in my life. I want a better life than the wages of the perpetual novice can afford.

Is this wrong?

And more importantly will I regret leaving the life of the nomad behind?