Headwaters - Found

I'm ready to begin again, but I'm not quite certain where to start. 

Julie Sucha Anderson

History tells us the white man searched for years to find the beginning of the Mississippi River. Most meandered fruitlessly, never finding their way to its origin. The Native Americans in the area must have chuckled as these explorers wandered aimlessly. Finally one explorer had the sense to ask the Indians where the headwaters lay. Eureka! The Headwaters were discovered.

Summer before last, my husband and I took a trip up to northern, northern Minnesota to visit friends. Even though I had crossed the Mississippi River countless times in the states of Minnesota, Iowa, Illinois, Missouri, Arkansas, Tennessee, Mississippi, Louisiana and even attended Girl Scout camp on the backwash of the Mississippi in Wisconsin, I'd never seen the headwaters. Always wanted to see the river's beginning. To experience its grandeur.

I was born in Minnesota and lived there my first thirteen years. In adulthood I returned each summer  to an old fashioned resort of tiny cabins in Spicer, Minnesota -- my husband and kids, my parents and my brothers' families all in attendance. Too much fun!

But this trip with only my husband seemed very strange to me - bypassing the familiar roads leading to the lake and continuing north. To search for something new in a place beyond where I'd spent so much time. Where the before, wasn't anymore.

It had been almost a year since the passing of my mom; almost two years since losing my dad. I was soon to complete the task as executor of my parent's wills and the dismantling of their household to be distributed between my brothers and me. A most difficult time in my life compounded by not having the time I once had to pursue writing due to an outside the home job, my children heading off on their life adventures and me trying to find myself, while also trying not to think. I worked many substitute teacher days in order to take my mind off getting myself together. Doing everything I could by rote to make life simpler.

My writing disappeared. I had nothing to say.

The Headwaters of the Mississippi are located in Itasca State Park. Way up Nort, don't ya know. (You can take the girl out of Minnesota, but you can't take the Minnesota...) Unlike the early explorers, my husband and I were able to follow a wide man-made path down to the waters where we came upon the rock ledge that separates the Lake Itasca from the narrow beginnings of a grand river.

I took off my shoes and socks and wandered through the unseasonably warm water to have a seat. As the water passing over my toes began its journey to the Gulf of Mexico, I stared down its path, wishing I could ride down along with it. Embarking on an odyssey of something new from where I'd been. A hopeful journey of new adventure, discovering more and more as I floated.

I sat there and imagined that this could be the beginning of my release from the grief and stagnation of the past few years. That now, with my children out on their own and my parent's passing behind me, I could begin to think of myself, and what I wanted to do with my life.

I felt so hopeful.

Like the explorers floundering through the woods seeking the headwaters, my thoughts and hopes didn't quite come to fruition either. Sometimes my dreams are bigger than my mind can grasp. I forget those details that can cloud a big picture. Those details one has to plod through. And that sometimes the plodding can get mucky. And rest is needed for perhaps there is no strength to move forward.

I retreated to my rote world. I relished my friends and laughter.  Fun. Brainless complacency.

The two (Mom) and three (Dad) year anniversary of my losses has passed. My youngest son has settled in a school where he has found his passion and future.  I'm not teaching as much. The tangles around my feet have lessened. I feel lighter. The Wa I've sought has arrived. I like it.

A few weeks ago, my dear friend, Carolyn Scarborough, a writing coach and author of Backyard Pearls, announced a one-day writer retreat. She has facilitated retreats in the past, but I was not in retreat mode unless it involved a beach and a gallon of wine. But when I saw her announcement, a retreat where my brain had to participate seemed right. I signed up immediately. The time had come to get up off the rocks at the Headwaters and begin the new journey.

My writing goals have changed from years ago when the intense days of practice, membership in writing organizations, the pursuit and reality of publishing consumed me. I'm not that person anymore.

Now I want to write because I love it and I love me when I'm in writer mode. I have a novel I want to finish. For me. I have a journal with blank pages that patiently awaits my thoughts, aimless and empty as they often are. I have a blog that I often look back on and read my past entries, marvelling - "Wow, did I write that? I didn't know I knew words like that?" Maybe I should write more there.

I have a filing cabinet filled with finished, unfinished essays and short stories. They've been gathering dust since the whole Midlife Jobhunter deal came up.  I'm thinking I'll blow the dust off those files and explore what might lurk in there.

I'm ready to engage in the calm of my writing life. At my own pace.

The Mississippi takes a certain, well defined path. The water behind the water pushes it along its way. I don't have that force behind me, but that's the way it goes. Sometimes you find the flow and sometimes you just have to paddle. Can't begin unless you find the headwaters, though. And the paddle.

I found them. Wonder where they'll lead me.

I'm ready to begin again.  I now know where to start.

Julie Sucha Anderson

 

Update on the Midlife Jobhunter

How old would you be if you didn't know how old you were?  

Satchel Paige

Time once again to add a year to the number in my blog header. Fifty-five no longer suffices, unless I lie. I'm not a very good liar. In fact, when I try to lie, my forehead tends to become a flashing neon

 She's Lying!

Here I am at my birthday a few weeks ago.

All my life, not being a good liar has hindered my growth.  Means I step on my foot, a lot, when someone asks my opinion. Even the fiction I write comes from life and not much made up. Perhaps why Science Fiction and Fantasy aren't my genres and personal essay is much easier for me.

I am now 56.  This getting older has hit me. Perhaps because this birthday my mom and dad weren't around to remind me I'm someone's child. My husband is after me to plan for retirement and I'm still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up.

But Midlife Jobhunter? What was I thinking four years ago when I began this venue? I was 52. I honestly considered myself mid-life.  I'm not certain I'll make it to 104. And now, 112?

Do I change the title of my blog? I've considered a few.

Back When I Was Skinny
What's Ahead?
Where Did the Time Go?
How Can I Be 56? (Which of course will change every year.)
The Reluctant Matriarch
The Old Bitch
The Flower's Dropping her Petals
Somebody Pluck her Chin Hairs
Autumn Strikes
The Invisible Woman
The Youthful Elder

You may have noticed, I've also been fiddling with the blog's design. Not a great amount of time invested there as I'm not certain what I'm seeking. As usual.

I'm not up for beginning an entirely new blog and leaving this one behind. In the blog world, Midlife Jobhunter is who I am. Perhaps clinging to the word midlife brings me comfort.  (I must admit that it took me about five minutes to come up with that name when I began, but that's what I believed I was.)

From its early beginning of a woman in a panic, frightened of the world ahead, I must say I'm quite surprised at where Midlife Jobhunter is now. As well as where she isn't. My husband's company came around and the fear of its demise passed. I've managed to make a little money by utilizing some of my old skills - teaching, reading, and editing. I make about a dollar two ninety-eight an hour doing each. Not quite a lucrative career.

I had the crappiest job of my life - scoring state required test essays. Been chewed up and spit out by middle and high school students while substitute teaching--although discovered I carry quite a big stick so students need to pack a lunch if they want to take me on. (Raising three boys had something to do with that.) I can be any kind of editor someone wants me to be, yet still have trouble editing my own work.

I'm still the happiest when sitting on my bed, surrounded by my research and thoughts, my backyard my view if I should look up while plunking away on my laptop. Creating.

As for the followers I've met on this wandering? You are incredible people. Real people. Smart people. Creative people. Most interesting to have followed your paths as you followed mine. As my blog segued beyond jobhunting into everything from weddings, funerals, hangovers, travels, writing and reading, bird watching, and who knows where else, I have enjoyed following your journeys. Sharing your intimacies, your fears, your joys, your lives.

So, what is this about? Hell if I know. It's almost the end of August and I need another post so I'll have two this month.

Honestly, though. Have any of you considered changing the name of your blog? Did you worry about your followers finding you? I don't plan on giving up blogging, but does a 56 year old woman still have credibility as a Midlife Jobhunter? Does it matter?

Midlife Jobhunter Decides Future

Choose a job you love, and you will never have to work a day in your life.

Confucius

A couple of weeks ago, my husband and I took a trip to celebrate getting all three of our sons to 18 without having to embrace any surprise grandchildren or post any bail. Little did I know that while celebrating, I'd also discover my calling.

Yes, this Midlife Jobhunter has decided what she wants to be when she grows up - a professional vacationer. I have no idea why I didn't think of it sooner. I'm so good at recess. I can even prove it.

See how well I sit at this table in an open window restaurant drinking my wine. I'm so happy.

And my toes - look how good they look after a wave swishes over them.

Look how comfortable I am on this beach. I have my cooler, my float, my hat, my book (although I must say this wasn't the best time to lend my only smut book to the Fragrant Liar. Those I brought were much too tame for vacation alone with my husband. )

Who, by the way, never said a word that even though I'd hauled my snorkel gear all that way, only used it for about ten minutes.

Besides, it was much more fun to look at views like this..

and this...

and this...

and this...

and this...

Yup! I think this is gonna work for me.

The Blogger's Joy

Praise the bridge that carried you over.

George Colman

Why do I blog? Why do I wonder how those I've met in the blog world fare in their days? Why do I write to those who have not posted in some time to see how life goes?

Perhaps because they have continual faith in me, despite my absences and often lack of individual thankfulness for their comments. Despite my inconsistent visits to their home pages.

Why do I blog? Because when I have a totally crappy day and the audacity to write about it, YOU all write to me. You reassure me. You let me know you are out there. (Even though you may have had an equally or completely worse day.)

That's why I blog. Not for what I get, but what I might give when I'm able to do that. Not to mention I find it fascinating how others live their lives. Also, how fun to read when bloggers get together from afar.

Several of my blogger friends gathered in the photo above. Lovely women, all of them, in attendance at my son's wedding last April.

On the left, Kimber, The Fragrant Liar, the "You picked a fine time to leave me, Lucille" friend of mine who relocated to Florida in June. On my other side, Bernie, that old broad from Wisconsin at Old?Who? Me? and then Beth at The Busy Traveler, the talented chemical engineer turned writer who travels much too much and sends my jealous meter off the chart.

As for that old broad in Wisconsin, I'm headed up there on Saturday to celebrate her 85th birthday. Feel free to wish her a happy day. I'll be freezing my big Texas butt off in the frigid cold that has descended on that state, because I'm visiting, I'm sure. Believe it or not, there is no Packer game this weekend. Is there no mercy for a long-time fan?

Next post should arrive upon my return, Old? Who? Me? accompanying me for a Texas stay.

Hence, let us not underestimate ourselves. I have followed many of you for almost two years. Community. I thank you for responding when in my dumps and in my highs and middling. I appreciate your comments and suggestions.

You will have that backing with me, also. More important, as a reader for your most lovely essays of norm, and adventure. This roadtrip of the Midlife Jobhunter has been most interesting even though I'm not certain I've metered much mileage yet.

Who is that Fat Lady in the Photo?

We have all a better guide in ourselves, if we would attend to it, than any other person can be.

Jane Austen

This past weekend, the Bunco Bitches got together for one of our famous weekends. Hadn't had one since last November. I was ready.

Our original plan had us spending Friday night at JoD's new bungalow in a little town in the Hill Country. (Another Midlife Jobhunter, she is setting up a whole new life for herself.)

Well, you know how it goes. One night stretched to a long, lazy morning and then a walk about town, which led to the local watering hole. Next thing you know, everybody is headed down the road to my cabin for another night of decadent behavior. Home? What is home?

Languid ladies sipping luscious wine while the sun's light slides beneath the landscape.

Of course, we had a photographer in the group. Here I am driving my VW bug on our way to the lake. When my friend posted this photo on Facebook, I looked and looked. Who was that smiling lady with the double chin?

In my last post, I mentioned an excerpt from Simple Abundance - A Daybook of Comfort and Joy (Warner Books, 1995.) I actually found the entry Sarah Ban Breathnach writes in her selection for February 12.

Today, try to find a photograph of yourself when you were about ten. Make sure you're smiling. Put it in a pretty frame and place it on your dressing table, desk... and look at it every day. Send love to that young girl. Try to travel back in time and imagination.

...because age ten was probably the last time you trusted your instincts. You didn't listen to the opinions of your mother, your sister, your friends because you had your own.

...I remind myself that once upon a time, I trusted my instincts. You did, too. Once upon a time there weren't second or third guesses. It can be that way again.

...Try to contact the girl you once were. She's all grown up now. She's your authentic self and she's waiting to remind you how beautiful, accomplished, and extraordinary you really are.

Here is my ten year old self.

Fourth grade. I more often than not saw things differently than those around me. I didn't understand why, nor the loneliness it sometimes wrought, but I kind of liked the independence it created. My mother and I had opposite opinions on what I should wear. My bedroom was a mess; my dresser and night table covered with pictures, artifacts I liked to look at, dust, paperwork that needed tending or filing, and probably something I'd worn and not hung up. My favorite color was blue. I rarely had my attire completely together. I loved spaghetti. I played teacher. My favorite subject was reading.

Hmmm, nothing's changed there. Except for that double chin. Probably should work on that.

Puzzle Pieces

Did you ever stop to think, and forget to start again?

Winnie the Pooh

When you were a kid, lying under a tree or while cuddled under a warm blanket, did you envision yourself as a grownup? In my Midlife Jobhunter quest to discover what I'd like to be, I've returned often to what my thoughts may have been when I was ten. I mention 10 as somewhere I read - I think in Simple Abundance by Sarah Ban Breathnach - that we are the closest to our authentic self when we are 10 years old.

Ten. Oh, to summon back the youthful vision of ten.

When I completed Breathnach's year long study many years ago, I discovered a long forgotten photo of myself -- at 10. Sure luck as I don't have many photos of my youth. But, alas, from a book my oldest brother had gathered for me, I discovered a picture in front of a birthday cake -- a smile on my face and 10 candles ready to blow. I studied the face of that child, excited about life, unaware of what might lie ahead, and tried to recall her dreams, desires, and hopes.

I'm sure at the time I journeyed through Simple Abundance, I also journaled my recollections. But life, once again, segued me off in another direction.That journal is now buried in a box in the attic and I have no desire to dig around up there. I must begin anew.

Sitting on my porch this morning, accompanied by the morning glories that burst open today,

I recall I liked to explore, albeit with trepidation. I was neither the one with the most guts, nor the most fear. I would climb the trees and ride the neighbor's horse, but always with a tug of angst in my chest. I wasn't fond of getting hurt. But I never minded following a new trail in the forest. I had a good sense of direction and the ability to remember where I came from. I could always find my way back.

I know I wanted to see the world. In middle school, we had assemblies in the auditorium. We saw movies of far away places, different cultures, adventures. My family didn't venture far - a week at the lake in summer and a four day trip to Chicago in the fall. Sunday car rides offered a view of life surrounding our small corner of southern Minnesota - the cornfields flying by, interrupted by the cows walking home or a railroad track with a train due. As my older brother was drilled on his math facts or the parts of speech, I sat in silence, watching the heart and soul in the countryside glide by outside the window. I dreamed.

My mother always talked of visiting Paris so from an early age I knew another world existed. Her father left her a $1000 life insurance policy when he died. She planned to take that money and go to Paris someday. Then more kids were born and life took over and many years passed, the $1000 depleted. But in my head, a world beyond the gridded sections of Minnesota countryside existed. Paris, New York City, the Pacific Ocean.

What does this have to do with my authentic self and what I want to be when I grow up? Hell if I know. Trying to piece it together, I guess. And today, you are my listeners as I sort things out.

Sorting. Always seem to be sorting. Laundry, thoughts, me.

WOW - Blogger of Note

I met a lot of people in Europe. I even encountered myself.

James Baldwin

Welcome to Midlife Jobhunter. A thank you to my long-time blog friends, Pam and Sandy at Words of Wisdom, otherwise known as WOW, for featuring me as a Blogger of Note on their fine venture. WOW supports writers and readers who appreciate blogs that promote thoughtful responses and insights. Hope I live up to the honor.

Midlife Jobhunter began on a five minute whim as I worked on my resume and panicked over rejoining the workforce. Oh, the camaraderie I've enjoyed while my clumsy gait meanders on this mapless ride.

The blog world hosts a vast group of hunters, just like me, complete with a myriad of road blocks and sites to view along the way. My followers know I’m a crappy housekeeper, throw a baseball much better than I braid hair, and could live in my hammock with a stack of good books. That this spring I collected a daughter-in-law (who throws one hell of a softball), a college graduate, and my last high school graduate.

They survived my miserable first job - grading high school test papers. That this year, my job wasn’t much better – substitute teaching. That I’ve discovered this midlife jobhunting is about much more than the receipt of a lousy paycheck. It is, instead, a search for self. A search for purpose. A discovery and gathering of the shavings that hold us together.

I get to choose three past posts to help you get better acquainted. How difficult this has been. What do I want someone new to know about me? Probably best to get rid of one of my worst attributes right off the bat.

Circling the Stupid

Ode to the One I Didn't Hire

The Art of My Essays

Join the ride and Happy Trails.

I Give

A woman my age is not supposed to be attractive or sexually appealing. I just get kinda tired of that.

Kathleen Turner

Okay, I give. Watched Facebook for photos posted of my son and me dancing at his wedding. Haven't found one yet that flatters me, so figure, perhaps I'm just not in a flatter-available posture these days.

But, off to the next adventure. Middle son's college graduation. I can only hope that after a year or more of listening to me, you will understand that I don't seem to live up to my expectations in these photos.

The song choice? The Beatles - In My Life.
Did we have fun? You Betcha Baby.
(And the site where I would now play that song while you look at the photos? Can't find it. Tired, I guess.)

Thank you, Busy Traveler, for the photos.

The proud mom and dad of the groom, awaiting the bride. We so love her.

The family.

The Groom's Cake - the Fraternity House, less the beer cans. Notice the old red photo in the background. Bob and me, 1978. I recently learned that the reason all our photos from the 70's turned red is because of the paper used. You can't imagine all the fun comments from my son's friends on his dad's long hair.
A friend described the picture tonight at dinner - the hippie and the Amish girl. Oh, who said compatibility comes from sameness? Nowadays, the roles seem reversed.

As some of you may know, my mom, the Old?Who?Me? lady suffered a severe fall at the lake. I'm happy to report she is home just today, safely, and recovering.

I have so many great photos. Fodder for the next year. I remember She Writes, who posted one post of her son's wedding, equipped with a long series of photos. I plan to do that in one swoop, but I never seem to do what I plan. Is that a midlife prerogative?

When I get all the pictures, I say. So far behind in my blogging. I promise to catch up soon. Onward.

Blowing the Whistle

Who dares to teach must never cease to learn.

John Cotton Dana

Yesterday, I had a half day afternoon job, teaching Latin. I'm not a morning person, so not having to show up until noon works for me. I spent my morning puttering around the house--reading a little, writing a little, checking my email, and planting a few columbines out in the garden. I emptied the dishwasher and brought up the garbage cans. Took something out to defrost for dinner, then washed my face, put on my teacher clothes, and headed off to the high school, and Latin.

Yeah, Latin. Like I know how to teach that. But in this stint of substitute teaching, I've become quite adept at learning a new subject in only a matter of moments. Often subbing is only babysitting as teachers leave boring worksheets or study time. But I find refereeing a room full of middle or high school students, with basically nothing to do for an hour and a half, offers more strain on my temperament than discovering a new subject and seeking a route to enhance both their learning and mine.

In the past few months, I've taught World History, Geography, French, English, Band, Theatre Arts, Algebra 2, Earth Science and Biology. I've learned, and hopefully passed on, some valuable material. But where have I spent most of my time? P.E. Physical Education. Picture a 53 year old women in the middle of a gym with 35 kids playing combat Dodge Ball. Not a problem, though. As the mother of three boys, I'm comfortable walking into a room with flying balls.

I'm requested often for PE. My friend at the YMCA gave me a whistle which I keep in my teacher bag. Comes in handy when the mom voice doesn't quite rise above the din in the gym.

If students become unruly in PE? I merely blow that whistle and say in a calm voice. "You guys aren't listening to me. Time to run."

As the kids run/walk/jog around me, tongues hanging to the floor, they ask how long they have to run. I look at my watch, then answer. "Until I get tired."

Works every time.

So, Latin. I go to school. Turns out I have my days wrong. My Latin assignment is on Friday. I blame menopause for the brain fade rather than stupidity. Like, didn't I look at the date of the job when I signed up? So thankful the women who work that front office are my age. They laughed with me, rather than at me.

Showing up for work, and then not having to? Almost like a Snow Day.

Until Friday then. Magister dixit. Carpe noctem.

Help! Closet Dweller Needs a Tune

Child of mine, child of mine
Oh yes, sweet darling
So glad you are a child of mine.

Carole King

Today I changed the sheets on my bed. Not because I planned to, but because Janna at Something She Wrote posed a question on her blog the other day as to how often we might fess up to changing our sheets. Okay. Weekly, of course. Right?

Couldn't sleep last night. Got up this morning, stripped my bed and washed the sheets. Maybe if I had more than one pair of sheets. But they're not fresh when you pull them out of the linen closet - and I like to hang them outside, and ...

I've lost the thread.

Anyway, so Jacob, my oldest who is getting married in April, calls me while I'm tugging on the last corner of the clean bottom sheet and says,

"I need you to pick a song for the Mother/Son dance."

"Okay," I say. "I'll think about it and let you know."

Back to making the bed. While I'm putting on the blanket and trying to make neat corners in the tiny side leftovers on the King size cover that's REALLY MADE FOR A QUEENSIZE EVEN THOUGH IT SAYS KING (why do they do that?), a deep thought hits me. I fall onto the bed and after a few moments of hyperventilation, grab the phone and call Jacob back.

"So like the two people who prefer hiding in the back row, in the dark, have to get up in front of everyone -- and dance. Like alone?"

"That's what I said," he replies.

Shit.

All I can think of is Hank Williams - Six Pack to Go.

I Googled Mother/Son dance and the only one I liked is the Beatles - In My Life - 2 minutes 37 seconds. I have always loved, and sang to my children, Carole King's Child of Mine. But I would sob all the way through that and it is also 3 minutes and 53 seconds. An eternity. On a dance floor. In the spotlight. In a silver pair of shoes that are killing my feet.

When Jacob came by today, he said we don't have to do it if we don't want to. Now I feel I have too much time racked up in the best song pursuit. Easy to puss out on it, but must press forward.

So, I pose the question to all of you. An appropriate mother/son dance song that is cool, not sappy, not sad, not at the top of the mom/son dance Google hit list, has a little sass, classs, not too slow, not too fast, and will hopefully make everyone else join us on the dance floor when the next song is Love Shack.

Help required, indeed.

Please click on the songs to the right to see what I'm thinking.

The Art of My Essays - Part II The Fog Changes

Also, as I lay there thinking of my vision, I could see it all again and feel the meaning with a part of me like a strange power glowing in my body; but when the part of me that talks would try to make words for the meaning, it would be like fog and get away from me.

Black Elk

In her farewell editorial in the New York Times column Domestic Disturbances, Judith Warner wrote the following:

“’How can I know what I think until I read what I write?” the former Times columnist James Reston — quoted by (Anna) Quindlen in her final “Life in the 30s” column, in December 1988 — once wrote. Often, writing here, I didn’t know fully what I felt — about things going on in my own life — until I read what I’d written. And very often I didn’t understand what I’d written until I heard it coming back at me.

I read this editorial in December and kept it tucked in my mind (actually pasted into a document for a future post.) The reason? I completely understand using what I've written to understand myself. And the comments of others to further discern the meaning. What relief I felt to learn I'm not alone.

On January 12, I wrote Part One of this small series regarding the discovery of my own interest in writing personal essays. Through my efforts as the volunteer neighborhood newsletter editor, I found an escape from the days filled with wiping noses, changing diapers, and endlessly pushing the swing at the park. Not that I didn't enjoy that, but, I needed an outlet just to keep that bit of myself that still clung to the edge and wasn't sucked up into the life of the stay-at-home mom with a husband who worked 12 hours days. Thus arrived the opportunity to spew my life into paragraphs on Page Five -- and I discovered a voice by writing about those noses, diapers, and swings.

But, here was the deal. When I wrote those essays, I didn't know what I was doing. I could write essays on daily life to fill page 5 til the cows came home. I knew what it was like to yearn for solitude, to go to the the bathroom alone, just once. To have a need for something I accomplished to last longer than 24 hours. These things I had no trouble understanding.

But as my children grew, I yearned for more of a challenge. Had sort of a did that/what's next attitude -- beyond what I could easily produce and understand. I wanted to discover a part of me that was buried beneath the needs of everyone else and necessities of every day life. I not only wanted to discover it, I wanted to write about the progress and write it well.

Therefore, I had to figure out where I was going.

This is where I curse myself. Why can't I ever be satisfied? Instead of fulfilling myself with what I know, resting on a familiar ledge, some invisible force always plods me toward a further distance, to an unknown. To a place much more difficult to master. To another edge. Sometimes only a lateral move. Sometimes back down before I get to another rise.

In 1996, I came across Sarah Ban Breathnach's book Simple Abundance, Warner Books, 1995. Following along with her daily messages of utilizing comfort to seek out the self I'd lost in the mire of motherhood, my grasp on the side of that edge became stronger. Even pulled myself up a bit to see a world out there on the horizon. At the end of that year long search in that book, I had before me my first completed journal and a photo journal cataloging images of things I liked - not just a hodge podge of ideas in my head, but a clear vision of my passions, a pattern. Equipped with this knowledge, I set forth, with a sense of organization, onto a new, yet unfamiliar writing path.

Obviously that path also had many uncertain turns and detours. Even huge mountains appeared before me as I took unfamiliar roads -- writing groups, critiques, deeper searches into my soul.

As I took classes and studied not only the essay, but also the craft of writing, my first attempts retreated into the familiar. If not for the prodding of some fine teachers who challenged me to search deeper, to explore where I didn't want to go, did my essays change from the simpler days of yore.

Often I wonder what it is about me that just can't be satisfied. Why I seem to automatically wander in and out of the fog seeking adventures that require more of me. That I truly do love to rock and loll and float, and spend a great deal of time doing that. Given that scenario, it would seem I'd not end up in more challenging places, that I'd seek where I wouldn't struggle like tackling the novel or short stories. A non-fiction proposal. Essays on my place in this world.

Or to discover why it is some of those essays I begin with such ease end up in my incomplete file, sometimes for years, in an effort to focus in on what I've learned. Perhaps I have not mastered the art of deciphering my words. Perhaps a further look is required, like James Reston, Anna Quindlin and Judith Warner. To look further into the words before me on the page. To believe the words have come from me.

To not be afraid to find how far off the original map I've journeyed. To not fear that my organization may be off. That the next map may not be within my grasp.

To be continued...

Onward! Launch Time has Arrived

Life's challenges are not supposed to paralyze you, they're supposed to help you discover who you are.

Bernice Johnson Reagon

I'm lolling about in the confines of a very warm bed. My husband awoke me hours ago with a cup of coffee, yet it has begun to rain and the drops on the tin roof provide a rhythm that makes being under the covers much too inviting. Besides, getting up means all that Christmas mess needs my assistance to attain its resting place for another year. Also the piles of paperwork hidden in vast recesses from visiting company's view need pulling out for assessment of any urgency long put off. Laundry, grocery shopping, life brought up to date to begin the new year, awaits me.

Before I head into that routine however, I require a more defined reminder of my desired accomplishments for this year - the writing I want to pursue, the perfect resume I want to design for that jobhunt, the time with my youngest son I want to treasure before he leaves to begin his very own life next fall.

Seems overwhelming as I list these items, and I'm tempted to put away the pages of my journal and close the cover of my laptop. Snuggling under the covers for one more nap sounds most inviting. But instead I stick with it for what the practice of writing brings me. By putting my fears, my needs, my work into tangible words, I leave not only a plan on the page, but some of the anxiety as well.

By getting it down, the multitude of ideas and tasks floating like electrons and protons and neutrons around my brain have an opportunity to slow and settle, making then easier to distribute into a plan. The protons line up with the electrons to offer cause and effect. The neutrons float freely to be plucked as needed for reminders as to why any of this is done at all. For me, the tightening of the circular option gives me pause to prepare for the forward movement. A chance to take that needed breath and say, "Oh well," before pushing on into the subjective unknown of forward movement. Hopefully, I take some form of directions with me.

The new year begins. With weddings, graduations, empty nests, uncertainty before me, this will be a year filled with new roads. Possibly many unpaved and filled with ruts to dodge. I hope all my previous map reading helps me stay on a road - most of the time. Or else have the means to handle the detours and diversions with a steady heart and patient mind.

Onward!

Hallelujah, Everybody Say Cheese!

Life becomes religious whenever we make it so: when some new light is seen, when some deeper appreciation is felt, when some larger outlook is gained, when some nobler purpose is formed, when some task is well done.

Sophia Lyon Fahs

For those of you who have followed this Midlife Jobhunter all year, I wish you a very happy holiday season. For those of you who have joined the ranks as a midlife jobhunter this past year, know you are not alone. Keep your feet moving, one in front of the other. Never give up and never give in.

Have some fun with a little Robert Earl Keen. My destination for New Year's Eve (DO FOLLOW THIS LINK AS IT IS MUCH MORE FUN THAN LOOKING AT PICTURES OF MY FAMILY - Merry Christmas from the Family. Enjoy.

Meanwhile, snapshots from the year (missing Jim and Frank - sorry!) My family. Special love to all of yours.