This past weekend, I visited a friend in Bonny Doon. I crossed 17 (it wasn't anywhere as narrow and frightening as I remember), and wound my way through the mountains and trees with a strange reflex in my hands and feet. It was as though the corners of the highway still lived in my muscles, the anticipation of the banked curves, weaving through the living mountain like a river that had never been dry.
My heart sped up a little. I was reaching the end of Scotts Valley. A bizarre excitement swept through me. How to describe... but alas, there are no words for it, nothing in this pathetic human tongue to fully encapsulate the lightning that raced through me. Only feeling. A tightness of the throat, a pressure in the lungs, a fatigue in my quads. A shiver down the spine. A twitch of the ears.
There, in full view, burst Santa Cruz.
Some say a bell went off in their head when they first laid eyes on their soul-mate. Some people say that accepting a certain job that later becomes the career they were always called to do fits as comfortably and immediately as a favorite shoe. Here?
My immediate thought, like being smacked full-force with a gust of fresh air... was very simply:
"My god. I'm home."
A familiar buzz surrounded me, an energy with a mind of its own, the shadows shifting between the trees with the little spirits that I once called by name. The air itself was alive, whispering to me in a thousand voices unheard by the human ear. The branches of the redwoods reached out overhead like banners, waving to me as I passed by. The familiar windows, the old houses, the grumpy little shops, all smiling back at me through the rain. I found myself laughing out loud, almost insane, drunk with the feeling I never knew I'd lost, the feeling of being for once and for truly home.
I had reached the conclusion not more than three weeks ago that I could never go home again, for I had no home to return to. My childhood home was long gone, corrupted and changed beyond recognition. My heart broken, my friends scattered, my family living in some remote place that I had no real connection to and that refused whatever roots I DID try to put down. The very land itself rejected me, softly, gently, in that insistent but sad way someone who does not return your sentiments will politely decline your affections. I could almost hear the wind breathing into my ears that I could stay as long as I liked, but I would never truly fit in. And so, it was with a regretful determination that I shouldered the mantle of Vagabond, reasoning that I came from a long line of Wastrels and Nomads, surely this was simply a lesson to learn. And so, setting my jaw, I wandered to the Bay Area again, hoping that at least the familiarity would be some solace, the friends I could find would be enough to sustain me.
The shocks do not stop coming.
Not only are my friends coming out of the woodwork, and not nearly as far from me as I feared, but the land itself seems to rise up to meet me. The sun warms me with a friendly touch, the breezes caress my skin with what I can only describe as the tenderness of a lover, the earth laughs with me as I walk. And the profound loss I felt at being ripped away from the familiar was filled up to the brim and overflowing with a joy that refuses to subside.
And that moment hit me square in the chest, with all the force of a brick but yet with a fluid softness of a sudden deluge.
Home was here, the whole time, waiting for me to come back.
And my god.
Here I am.
April 04, 2012
March 05, 2012
Reduce, Reuse, Recycle - Why I Do What I Do
One of my favorite books as a kid was "50 Things Kids Can Do To Save The Earth". I didn't really understand at the time, but it truly shaped my perception of recycling. It started out simply: aluminum cans, plastic bottles - both easily identifiable, plentiful considering that our family drank a fair amount of soda, and recycling centers gave out money for them. But I noticed that the centers had bins for newspaper, tubs for tin cans, and several bins for glass. Even if they didn't pay much for them, or even at all, I started to wonder at the waste that could be averted with some careful sorting.
The word "green" wasn't really in use until I was well into high school. Our school - like many newer facilities at the time - was outfitted with receptacles for recycling, particularly bottles and cans. Though my friends sometimes scoffed (or were even just grossed out), I would remove soda cans from the trash and place them in the recycling bin. I realized that, sure, one can might not make a huge difference... but if I saved one extra can a day, that was 364 cans a year. Even one a week was another 52 cans that didn't end up in a landfill. That meant a lot more to me than most people.
See, my parents worked for the Forest Service in their youth. They would maintain trails, repair signs, and clean out fire pits. Sometimes campers left trash everywhere. Even as campers ourselves, sometimes we would find old cans sticking out of the dusty ground, where we could easily step on it and cut ourselves. It was an eyesore, a hazard, and it was certainly no good for the environment. Nothing breaks up the beauty of a sunrise by the South Fork of the Stanislaus River like a floating beer can that some careless fisherman tossed aside. So litter was a personal thing to me, on top of knowing that cleaning up after myself was the proper thing to do. And being fond of the wild places, wanting to preserve them, I knew recycling what we already have in use was the best way to keep the wild places pristine: turning in as much recyclable material as possible meant less waste in landfills, meaning they filled up more slowly, meaning they needed less space and less frequently. It also meant that fewer mines and refineries would be required to acquire new material. There was no drawback. It was logically the correct thing to do.
The only issue is one of effort. Sadly, a number of people find it to simply be too much hassle to separate bottles of glass, take it all down to a recycling center, and wait for someone to parse through everything. The time commitment and effort to maintain a recycling habit is often enough to make some people simply throw out their recyclables. That became even easier as the trend caught on, however, and by the time I was in college many dining facilities, bus stops, and public parks were outfitted with recycling receptacles. For the home-residents, garbage pickup services started offering at-home recycling pickup. Sure, you didn't get paid for it, but it almost eliminated the effort required.
Every time a new method was introduced, I incorporated it into my personal habits. Now I set aside recyclables at home, everything from newspaper to regular batteries; at the office, I help maintain the receptacles by keeping them clean and tidy, and emptying them as appropriate into the outside collections; when I go out on a hike or on a road trip, I make sure to pack out all my trash, and have a separate bag to collect things we can recycle when we get home. I try to help the practice gather momentum as well by educating kids on what can be recycled (my niece was ecstatic when I told her that she could recycle batteries), I encourage my peers to start up the practice, and I also set a positive example by being consistent.
I hope that I will eventually be able to whittle down how much I actually have to throw away to nothing. These days I'm even composting organic materials, so there's even less waste going into the garbage can every week. As time goes by, more and more efficient methods of manufacturing produce less waste, and our methods of reusing material become even more diverse. It is my fervent hope that we will eventually be able to completely self-sustain as a species, and no longer find it necessary to acquire more resources in order to maintain our lifestyles.
The word "green" wasn't really in use until I was well into high school. Our school - like many newer facilities at the time - was outfitted with receptacles for recycling, particularly bottles and cans. Though my friends sometimes scoffed (or were even just grossed out), I would remove soda cans from the trash and place them in the recycling bin. I realized that, sure, one can might not make a huge difference... but if I saved one extra can a day, that was 364 cans a year. Even one a week was another 52 cans that didn't end up in a landfill. That meant a lot more to me than most people.
See, my parents worked for the Forest Service in their youth. They would maintain trails, repair signs, and clean out fire pits. Sometimes campers left trash everywhere. Even as campers ourselves, sometimes we would find old cans sticking out of the dusty ground, where we could easily step on it and cut ourselves. It was an eyesore, a hazard, and it was certainly no good for the environment. Nothing breaks up the beauty of a sunrise by the South Fork of the Stanislaus River like a floating beer can that some careless fisherman tossed aside. So litter was a personal thing to me, on top of knowing that cleaning up after myself was the proper thing to do. And being fond of the wild places, wanting to preserve them, I knew recycling what we already have in use was the best way to keep the wild places pristine: turning in as much recyclable material as possible meant less waste in landfills, meaning they filled up more slowly, meaning they needed less space and less frequently. It also meant that fewer mines and refineries would be required to acquire new material. There was no drawback. It was logically the correct thing to do.
The only issue is one of effort. Sadly, a number of people find it to simply be too much hassle to separate bottles of glass, take it all down to a recycling center, and wait for someone to parse through everything. The time commitment and effort to maintain a recycling habit is often enough to make some people simply throw out their recyclables. That became even easier as the trend caught on, however, and by the time I was in college many dining facilities, bus stops, and public parks were outfitted with recycling receptacles. For the home-residents, garbage pickup services started offering at-home recycling pickup. Sure, you didn't get paid for it, but it almost eliminated the effort required.
Every time a new method was introduced, I incorporated it into my personal habits. Now I set aside recyclables at home, everything from newspaper to regular batteries; at the office, I help maintain the receptacles by keeping them clean and tidy, and emptying them as appropriate into the outside collections; when I go out on a hike or on a road trip, I make sure to pack out all my trash, and have a separate bag to collect things we can recycle when we get home. I try to help the practice gather momentum as well by educating kids on what can be recycled (my niece was ecstatic when I told her that she could recycle batteries), I encourage my peers to start up the practice, and I also set a positive example by being consistent.
I hope that I will eventually be able to whittle down how much I actually have to throw away to nothing. These days I'm even composting organic materials, so there's even less waste going into the garbage can every week. As time goes by, more and more efficient methods of manufacturing produce less waste, and our methods of reusing material become even more diverse. It is my fervent hope that we will eventually be able to completely self-sustain as a species, and no longer find it necessary to acquire more resources in order to maintain our lifestyles.
March 01, 2012
Brain Dead Drivel
(WARNING: Contains Strong Language)
Recently I found myself gainfully employed.
Now, unlike most other jobs I have possessed, this one is neither full-time, nor is it during normal business hours. No, the job I was hired to do is seasonal work that will end right about the time Spring Quarter starts up, which is pretty well perfect. It doesn't pay much, in fact hardly anything at all, but it slows the speed with which I am draining my unemployment claim. It's something, and I'm learning to take what I can with both hands and throttle it until I've wrung every last drop of sustenance from it.
In times gone by, I would have scoffed. I'm earning almost half what I used to, and the hours are well after sunset until just past dawn. It's rough work, with harsh cleansers and sharp things and hard heavy objects with pointy corners. I'm on my feet pretty much the whole time. And everyone there with me is in the same boat, so I don't dare complain. I suck it up, because it's what you fucking do. It doesn't matter what it looks like anymore. It doesn't matter what other people think. It matters that I grab ahold of what life gives me and I never let go, like a terrier will get a rat between its teeth and shake the life out of it. I can't be the prim and proper middle-class lady I used to be. It's time to nut up or shut up, get my hands dirty, and wade through mold and dust and garbage and cardboard (and occasionally bite my lip through the sting of the cleanser when it hits the cuts on my hands) to get the job bloody well done.
I wake tired every time, and with each consecutive shift things seem a little harder. It's harder to get out of bed, harder to rouse into consciousness, harder to stay awake, harder to figure out if I'm hungry. It's harder to fall asleep when I get home, harder to see the goal ahead. But dimly I remember it's there, and I keep getting my ass out of bed, into the shower, into clean clothes, into the car, and down to the store. I think they call it graveyard shift because you feel like a zombie after a while. But I'm embracing it - good, bad, and ugly - with all my might. Others have come before me and done harder work for less. I won't let this beat me down. I just fucking won't. There's too much fire in my heart and too much stubbornness in my mind to let any paltry thing like this own me. I could be jobless, but I'm not. It's kind of a crap job, but it's fucking work, and I'll be damned if I'm going to be ashamed of that for any reason.
I worry a lot. Will there be room in the class I need, will I find more work when this is done, will I find ENOUGH work, can I find a place of my own that I can actually afford, can I make it on my own. The answer to that last one is no, at least for now. There's no way in hell that I could completely support myself in this moment. It's a bare, naked, raw truth, and hiding it doesn't make it less real. I'm done hiding the truth. It wasted a lot of damn time and gained little in return. Smiling and pretending things are all right only makes the wound fester. I need to lance it, let it drain, expose it to the air. I need the sunlight to hit it and fire to cauterize it. This is the truth. This is what's real. I'm fucking poor, can't support myself, but goddamnit I'm working like an honest citizen and paying my bills one at a time.
And that, above all else, makes me proud.
If you asked me what I need to do for school in this moment, the words that would come out of my mouth would be in half-formed sentences that cobbled together in incomplete thoughts. My brain is so tired I can't think straight. But where my brain fails, my spirit picks up the slack, and I carry that spark like a torch. It's my last inch, that last ray of hope. It's that fundamental core of myself that cannot and WILL not be extinguished for as long as I have the courage to keep fighting, the will to swing my legs over the edge of the bed and make something of the day. I may be in a rough spot, sure. Lots of people have been. This isn't new. I'm not special. In fact, a lot of folks have it much, MUCH worse. And yeah, I'm daring to forge ahead and get back into school, AND work, AND dig myself out of debt, AND many other things. But I choose to do them. I am no victim of circumstance. This fate was of my own making, and by god it will be of my own making to get myself out. Will I have to lean on others to make it happen? Yes. Am I grateful? More than I can express. But this is something I have to do for myself. I have to climb this mountain so that when I get to the top, I know for a fucking fact that it was because I bent my will to it and had the strength to persevere.
So yeah. I may be snappish, or short, or groggy. I may be exhausted, weary, and broke. It's an unglamourous life. But it's real, and it's mine, and nobody is going to take that from me.
Recently I found myself gainfully employed.
Now, unlike most other jobs I have possessed, this one is neither full-time, nor is it during normal business hours. No, the job I was hired to do is seasonal work that will end right about the time Spring Quarter starts up, which is pretty well perfect. It doesn't pay much, in fact hardly anything at all, but it slows the speed with which I am draining my unemployment claim. It's something, and I'm learning to take what I can with both hands and throttle it until I've wrung every last drop of sustenance from it.
In times gone by, I would have scoffed. I'm earning almost half what I used to, and the hours are well after sunset until just past dawn. It's rough work, with harsh cleansers and sharp things and hard heavy objects with pointy corners. I'm on my feet pretty much the whole time. And everyone there with me is in the same boat, so I don't dare complain. I suck it up, because it's what you fucking do. It doesn't matter what it looks like anymore. It doesn't matter what other people think. It matters that I grab ahold of what life gives me and I never let go, like a terrier will get a rat between its teeth and shake the life out of it. I can't be the prim and proper middle-class lady I used to be. It's time to nut up or shut up, get my hands dirty, and wade through mold and dust and garbage and cardboard (and occasionally bite my lip through the sting of the cleanser when it hits the cuts on my hands) to get the job bloody well done.
I wake tired every time, and with each consecutive shift things seem a little harder. It's harder to get out of bed, harder to rouse into consciousness, harder to stay awake, harder to figure out if I'm hungry. It's harder to fall asleep when I get home, harder to see the goal ahead. But dimly I remember it's there, and I keep getting my ass out of bed, into the shower, into clean clothes, into the car, and down to the store. I think they call it graveyard shift because you feel like a zombie after a while. But I'm embracing it - good, bad, and ugly - with all my might. Others have come before me and done harder work for less. I won't let this beat me down. I just fucking won't. There's too much fire in my heart and too much stubbornness in my mind to let any paltry thing like this own me. I could be jobless, but I'm not. It's kind of a crap job, but it's fucking work, and I'll be damned if I'm going to be ashamed of that for any reason.
I worry a lot. Will there be room in the class I need, will I find more work when this is done, will I find ENOUGH work, can I find a place of my own that I can actually afford, can I make it on my own. The answer to that last one is no, at least for now. There's no way in hell that I could completely support myself in this moment. It's a bare, naked, raw truth, and hiding it doesn't make it less real. I'm done hiding the truth. It wasted a lot of damn time and gained little in return. Smiling and pretending things are all right only makes the wound fester. I need to lance it, let it drain, expose it to the air. I need the sunlight to hit it and fire to cauterize it. This is the truth. This is what's real. I'm fucking poor, can't support myself, but goddamnit I'm working like an honest citizen and paying my bills one at a time.
And that, above all else, makes me proud.
If you asked me what I need to do for school in this moment, the words that would come out of my mouth would be in half-formed sentences that cobbled together in incomplete thoughts. My brain is so tired I can't think straight. But where my brain fails, my spirit picks up the slack, and I carry that spark like a torch. It's my last inch, that last ray of hope. It's that fundamental core of myself that cannot and WILL not be extinguished for as long as I have the courage to keep fighting, the will to swing my legs over the edge of the bed and make something of the day. I may be in a rough spot, sure. Lots of people have been. This isn't new. I'm not special. In fact, a lot of folks have it much, MUCH worse. And yeah, I'm daring to forge ahead and get back into school, AND work, AND dig myself out of debt, AND many other things. But I choose to do them. I am no victim of circumstance. This fate was of my own making, and by god it will be of my own making to get myself out. Will I have to lean on others to make it happen? Yes. Am I grateful? More than I can express. But this is something I have to do for myself. I have to climb this mountain so that when I get to the top, I know for a fucking fact that it was because I bent my will to it and had the strength to persevere.
So yeah. I may be snappish, or short, or groggy. I may be exhausted, weary, and broke. It's an unglamourous life. But it's real, and it's mine, and nobody is going to take that from me.
February 12, 2012
Adjustments
I was recently asked by a friend how I was holding up.
I didn't know how to answer the question. Not because it was difficult to say how I was doing, but because it implied that I might not be doing well.
Point in fact, the best time of my life has been the recent months.
I get up in the morning when the light streams through my window, painting the wall in golden light. Often as not, there's a particular furball curled up next to my chest, purring softly. I get up, clean up, do my morning chores, then go out to the back pasture to practice my archery.
I was given a number of arrows for my birthday - six carbon-fiber flights with target tips, the exact proper length. I take them from their corner, string up my laminate longbow, and head out to fire no fewer than three rounds of flights into the hay-bale set up for expressly this purpose. Then, arms sore and achy, I gather everything up, unstring my bow, and come back in to clean them all off and put them away. Then I sit down for guitar practice.
The calluses on my fingers are forming, if slowly. I've learned three major chords so far, though "learned" is putting it kindly. If I make a funny face and think hard enough, I can remember how I'm supposed to make the fingers sit on the strings. Dad taught me a song ("song" is again a generous term) that involves all three chords, so I can feel accomplished. Somewhat. It's halting, it's clumsy, it's awkward... but it's music. Then, when my fingers wont take it anymore, I get down to the real exercise.
I nabbed a Brazilian Dance workout DVD with the Amazon.com gift card I got for my birthday, along with a Yoga DVD. I do the makulale-inspired workout, then follow it up with a cooldown stretch of Yoga for fifteen minutes. My spine in particular appreciates this part. It's tough, but I feel so much better afterwards.
After that, the rest of the day kicks in. I might take the dogs out for a run, outpacing them on the bicycle to really run them out. Or I might just grab the ball-thrower and put them through their paces in the pasture. If there's work around the house that needs doing, I'm on it without complaint. Dad might draft me into some construction work, ripping up the deck or getting the posts ready for a new railing. Mom might have me take care of some gardening, or need a hand making some epic meal. I volunteer to chop wood, build fires, stack kindling, and walk to the mailbox down the road. I run errands in town, and I play video games on the computer. I make friends and flirt and have fun. I meditate on the I-Ching wrapped in a Chief Joseph robe. I listen to the chorus of the thousands of frogs, I pick out the stars from the blanket of twinkling lights, and I scan the stream for the Steelhead salmon that spawn there.
... how am I "holding up"?
Yeah, okay. I did have my fiancé tell me he wasn't going to keep going. After six years (almost to the day), he called it quits, leaving me completely adrift. I had no job, no prospects, and no reason to stay... even if I could have afforded to. Before I knew what was happening, my family swooped in like an eagle after a chinook, and carried me back to the nest. And here between the redwoods and the open sea have I found myself, hiding all along.
I never had depression, apparently. They're saying now that it was Chronic Anxiety all along, which was why the meds never worked properly. The instant the relationship was over, the attacks stopped. No more emotional episodes. Terrible as it sounds, I feel... free. The trickle down I've heard has been that he's doing about the same. Perhaps everyone was right, maybe the relationship was over long ago, and neither of us were willing to admit it. After all, I'm a Capricorn, and he an Aries. And I come from a long line of stubborn women.
So - how I'm "holding up"? It's the wrong question. The question is how I'm doing. And the answer is "I'm thriving". I'm about to start a new job, and I'm getting my school applications all squared away, and I'm making new friends. I'll be moving again soon, but this time, it will be where *I* want to go, and it will be for myself.
I didn't know how to answer the question. Not because it was difficult to say how I was doing, but because it implied that I might not be doing well.
Point in fact, the best time of my life has been the recent months.
I get up in the morning when the light streams through my window, painting the wall in golden light. Often as not, there's a particular furball curled up next to my chest, purring softly. I get up, clean up, do my morning chores, then go out to the back pasture to practice my archery.
I was given a number of arrows for my birthday - six carbon-fiber flights with target tips, the exact proper length. I take them from their corner, string up my laminate longbow, and head out to fire no fewer than three rounds of flights into the hay-bale set up for expressly this purpose. Then, arms sore and achy, I gather everything up, unstring my bow, and come back in to clean them all off and put them away. Then I sit down for guitar practice.
The calluses on my fingers are forming, if slowly. I've learned three major chords so far, though "learned" is putting it kindly. If I make a funny face and think hard enough, I can remember how I'm supposed to make the fingers sit on the strings. Dad taught me a song ("song" is again a generous term) that involves all three chords, so I can feel accomplished. Somewhat. It's halting, it's clumsy, it's awkward... but it's music. Then, when my fingers wont take it anymore, I get down to the real exercise.
I nabbed a Brazilian Dance workout DVD with the Amazon.com gift card I got for my birthday, along with a Yoga DVD. I do the makulale-inspired workout, then follow it up with a cooldown stretch of Yoga for fifteen minutes. My spine in particular appreciates this part. It's tough, but I feel so much better afterwards.
After that, the rest of the day kicks in. I might take the dogs out for a run, outpacing them on the bicycle to really run them out. Or I might just grab the ball-thrower and put them through their paces in the pasture. If there's work around the house that needs doing, I'm on it without complaint. Dad might draft me into some construction work, ripping up the deck or getting the posts ready for a new railing. Mom might have me take care of some gardening, or need a hand making some epic meal. I volunteer to chop wood, build fires, stack kindling, and walk to the mailbox down the road. I run errands in town, and I play video games on the computer. I make friends and flirt and have fun. I meditate on the I-Ching wrapped in a Chief Joseph robe. I listen to the chorus of the thousands of frogs, I pick out the stars from the blanket of twinkling lights, and I scan the stream for the Steelhead salmon that spawn there.
... how am I "holding up"?
Yeah, okay. I did have my fiancé tell me he wasn't going to keep going. After six years (almost to the day), he called it quits, leaving me completely adrift. I had no job, no prospects, and no reason to stay... even if I could have afforded to. Before I knew what was happening, my family swooped in like an eagle after a chinook, and carried me back to the nest. And here between the redwoods and the open sea have I found myself, hiding all along.
I never had depression, apparently. They're saying now that it was Chronic Anxiety all along, which was why the meds never worked properly. The instant the relationship was over, the attacks stopped. No more emotional episodes. Terrible as it sounds, I feel... free. The trickle down I've heard has been that he's doing about the same. Perhaps everyone was right, maybe the relationship was over long ago, and neither of us were willing to admit it. After all, I'm a Capricorn, and he an Aries. And I come from a long line of stubborn women.
So - how I'm "holding up"? It's the wrong question. The question is how I'm doing. And the answer is "I'm thriving". I'm about to start a new job, and I'm getting my school applications all squared away, and I'm making new friends. I'll be moving again soon, but this time, it will be where *I* want to go, and it will be for myself.
January 08, 2012
Long Time Gone
It's been a long time comin'
It's goin' to be a long time gone.
But you know,
The darkest hour is always
Always just before the dawn.
And it appears to be a long, appears to be a long,
Appears to be a long
Time before the dawn.
After a year of frantic and frenetic futility, I find myself here.
"Here" is unemployed, living with my folks, and single. In the span of just a few months, I went from living with my fiancé in San Diego and gainfully employed to here. Now, 900 miles later, I have the opportunity to really start anew. Not only has a new year begun in the strictest sense, but also a new decade for me, as the tail end of 2011 saw the celebration of my 30th birthday. So now, starting from scratch, with nothing but possibilities laying before me, I have the hardest thing to do - choose a path.
I've narrowed it down fairly quickly. I have the best chance if I start by thinking about careers. I've never really fancied working in an office, which is mostly what I've done for the past ten years. This office, that office, this corporation, that nonprofit, this industry, that manufacturer, this distributor, that service. It's all the same, day in, day out. I'd always start enthusiastic, but before long I would find myself bored out of my mind, wondering to myself, "what GOOD am I doing here?"
The answer is fairly simple. I want to work with animals. I'm good at it. I have a talent, a gift. Why waste it? But the economy has made it quite clear that an inexperienced Vet Assistant isn't enough. It's time to up the stakes. No, I don't want to be a Veterinarian. But I do want to be there in the animal hospital, making the sick ones well, helping the hurting ones heal, and letting the suffering ones go. I want to be there when someone has to say goodbye - not because it's enjoyable, but because I'm the right one for it. I can relate because I care. I can offer a shoulder to the owner and peace to the dying. And I can do this, not because it doesn't bother me, but rather because it does. Who else but someone who gives a damn will ensure that an animal - no matter its size or appearance - has every last scrap of dignity possible?
So instead of 6 years and multiple tens of thousands of dollars to become a Veterinarian, I'm taking the better route: 2 years and a couple thousand dollars in a Veterinary Technician Program.
What's so special about that, you may ask. Why not got full-hog and be a Veterinarian proper? Simple: I don't want to be the one to make the call.
During my externship, I ran across situations where the animal suffered because of a bad diagnosis. One that stands out more vividly than the rest is the case of Momma, a cat who couldn't maintain her equilibrium. Her head tilted at a sharp angle, unable to stand, she tipped over miserably and could not right herself. The vet puzzled and puzzled, but came to two conclusions: either she had an inner-ear problem, or a neurological one. The only way to see if it was an ear issue was exploratory surgery, which would be expensive for no reason if that wasn't the root cause. As a result, the family - being of middling means - opted to have her put down. The vet had presented the case as best he could with all the information he had available, and had made the call that it was one of two things - one fixable, the other a death-sentence - and if they paid a high price, it might still not be a positive outcome in the end. After her death, he performed a necropsy... and found that it had in fact been an ear problem, an easily fixable one.
It wasn't his fault. He did the best he could. But that's an intellectual rationalization for the fact that a cat was euthanized when we could have saved her. I never want to be the one to make that call. I have plenty of ghosts, thank you very much. I don't want or need more.
That being what it is, a Vet Tech is authorized in this state to do basically everything a Vet can do, shy of complex surgical procedures, with the notable exception of diagnosis. I'd never have to make the call. Get my hands dirty, do the work, assist when necessary, run labs and tests and all the legwork that cam up... but I'd never have to sentence a living thing to death, no matter the reason or rationale. It might be considered cowardly of me, but I know my limits. That's one of them.
Having thusly narrowed down my career choices, I have narrowed down schools. Now I need to put that into action. That's the difficult part for now. That, and learning to live with my "single-ness". It's striking. I haven't been single in six years, and it was a fairly short gap between-times the last time anyway. So this is new, even though it was once old. I'm finding it freeing and liberating as well as scary as hell and lonely. I'm healthier now, in a way I never knew I was sick, which gives me all the reason in the world to never look backwards. Only forward from here, although the journey is very, VERY long.
But it's been a long time coming. The darkest hour is always just before the dawn.
It's goin' to be a long time gone.
But you know,
The darkest hour is always
Always just before the dawn.
And it appears to be a long, appears to be a long,
Appears to be a long
Time before the dawn.
After a year of frantic and frenetic futility, I find myself here.
"Here" is unemployed, living with my folks, and single. In the span of just a few months, I went from living with my fiancé in San Diego and gainfully employed to here. Now, 900 miles later, I have the opportunity to really start anew. Not only has a new year begun in the strictest sense, but also a new decade for me, as the tail end of 2011 saw the celebration of my 30th birthday. So now, starting from scratch, with nothing but possibilities laying before me, I have the hardest thing to do - choose a path.
I've narrowed it down fairly quickly. I have the best chance if I start by thinking about careers. I've never really fancied working in an office, which is mostly what I've done for the past ten years. This office, that office, this corporation, that nonprofit, this industry, that manufacturer, this distributor, that service. It's all the same, day in, day out. I'd always start enthusiastic, but before long I would find myself bored out of my mind, wondering to myself, "what GOOD am I doing here?"
The answer is fairly simple. I want to work with animals. I'm good at it. I have a talent, a gift. Why waste it? But the economy has made it quite clear that an inexperienced Vet Assistant isn't enough. It's time to up the stakes. No, I don't want to be a Veterinarian. But I do want to be there in the animal hospital, making the sick ones well, helping the hurting ones heal, and letting the suffering ones go. I want to be there when someone has to say goodbye - not because it's enjoyable, but because I'm the right one for it. I can relate because I care. I can offer a shoulder to the owner and peace to the dying. And I can do this, not because it doesn't bother me, but rather because it does. Who else but someone who gives a damn will ensure that an animal - no matter its size or appearance - has every last scrap of dignity possible?
So instead of 6 years and multiple tens of thousands of dollars to become a Veterinarian, I'm taking the better route: 2 years and a couple thousand dollars in a Veterinary Technician Program.
What's so special about that, you may ask. Why not got full-hog and be a Veterinarian proper? Simple: I don't want to be the one to make the call.
During my externship, I ran across situations where the animal suffered because of a bad diagnosis. One that stands out more vividly than the rest is the case of Momma, a cat who couldn't maintain her equilibrium. Her head tilted at a sharp angle, unable to stand, she tipped over miserably and could not right herself. The vet puzzled and puzzled, but came to two conclusions: either she had an inner-ear problem, or a neurological one. The only way to see if it was an ear issue was exploratory surgery, which would be expensive for no reason if that wasn't the root cause. As a result, the family - being of middling means - opted to have her put down. The vet had presented the case as best he could with all the information he had available, and had made the call that it was one of two things - one fixable, the other a death-sentence - and if they paid a high price, it might still not be a positive outcome in the end. After her death, he performed a necropsy... and found that it had in fact been an ear problem, an easily fixable one.
It wasn't his fault. He did the best he could. But that's an intellectual rationalization for the fact that a cat was euthanized when we could have saved her. I never want to be the one to make that call. I have plenty of ghosts, thank you very much. I don't want or need more.
That being what it is, a Vet Tech is authorized in this state to do basically everything a Vet can do, shy of complex surgical procedures, with the notable exception of diagnosis. I'd never have to make the call. Get my hands dirty, do the work, assist when necessary, run labs and tests and all the legwork that cam up... but I'd never have to sentence a living thing to death, no matter the reason or rationale. It might be considered cowardly of me, but I know my limits. That's one of them.
Having thusly narrowed down my career choices, I have narrowed down schools. Now I need to put that into action. That's the difficult part for now. That, and learning to live with my "single-ness". It's striking. I haven't been single in six years, and it was a fairly short gap between-times the last time anyway. So this is new, even though it was once old. I'm finding it freeing and liberating as well as scary as hell and lonely. I'm healthier now, in a way I never knew I was sick, which gives me all the reason in the world to never look backwards. Only forward from here, although the journey is very, VERY long.
But it's been a long time coming. The darkest hour is always just before the dawn.
May 18, 2011
Common Magic
I have a gift.
Everybody does, actually. Everyone has a gift unique to them. Some little thing they do that's truly special. I knew someone who could tell the time without looking at a clock or watch to within 2-minutes accuracy. I used to test him because I thought it was incredible. I know someone with an ability to predict people's reactions years in advance to a creepy level of detail. Someone else I know has such kinesthetic awareness he's able to move through thick undergrowth in the dark without making hardly any noise. And still someone else I know walks so softly his very nickname is "Lightfoot". Everyone has a gift. Some people have two. My mom's is with plants, and cooking. My dad's is with the wilderness, and healing.
So what's my gift? I'm lucky. I have two.
First, and most well known, is my gift with animals. I'm able to understand them, and sometimes, even communicate back. I have dominated aggressive dogs, established territory against wandering mutts, made friends with hostile horses, won affection from wary cats, and made peace with wild animals like squirrels, deer, and rabbits. I have, in fact, managed to impress a man so ingrained with the knowledge of horses it's a part of his identity... by walking up to his ornery mare and her new foal, and getting them to snuffle me, steam up my glasses, and eat grass from my hands. I still hear the awe in his voice sometimes when I think back to it, as he turned to my dad and said, "Three months of feedin' that dang mare and she won't let me even near that foal." I didn't even think twice about it. I walked up in the proper way, communicating in body language - half-turned (non-aggressive), head lowered (unafraid), eyes hooded (not anxious). It's just how it's done.
The less-known gift is one I've recently discovered is actually something pretty special. I always thought this was just something everyone could do, but I seem to have a knack for it without even trying: finding things. Not places, mind you. I have a terrible LACK of an ability to navigate in anything other than the wilderness (and only that latter part because my father taught me how at a very young age). But things. Items. It doesn't seem to matter whether or not I've seen it recently. As long as I know what it looks like, I seem to be able to find it.
The weird thing is it only seems to work on items that don't belong to me. I'm forever misplacing my keys or cell phone. But if J can't find HIS phone, I think for a minute, and then tell him where it is. I don't know why I know it's there. But it usually is.
I wonder what gifts my other friends and family have. They may not realize it's a gift. They may simply do them or use them without thinking, like breathing or walking. Do you know yours?
Everybody does, actually. Everyone has a gift unique to them. Some little thing they do that's truly special. I knew someone who could tell the time without looking at a clock or watch to within 2-minutes accuracy. I used to test him because I thought it was incredible. I know someone with an ability to predict people's reactions years in advance to a creepy level of detail. Someone else I know has such kinesthetic awareness he's able to move through thick undergrowth in the dark without making hardly any noise. And still someone else I know walks so softly his very nickname is "Lightfoot". Everyone has a gift. Some people have two. My mom's is with plants, and cooking. My dad's is with the wilderness, and healing.
So what's my gift? I'm lucky. I have two.
First, and most well known, is my gift with animals. I'm able to understand them, and sometimes, even communicate back. I have dominated aggressive dogs, established territory against wandering mutts, made friends with hostile horses, won affection from wary cats, and made peace with wild animals like squirrels, deer, and rabbits. I have, in fact, managed to impress a man so ingrained with the knowledge of horses it's a part of his identity... by walking up to his ornery mare and her new foal, and getting them to snuffle me, steam up my glasses, and eat grass from my hands. I still hear the awe in his voice sometimes when I think back to it, as he turned to my dad and said, "Three months of feedin' that dang mare and she won't let me even near that foal." I didn't even think twice about it. I walked up in the proper way, communicating in body language - half-turned (non-aggressive), head lowered (unafraid), eyes hooded (not anxious). It's just how it's done.
The less-known gift is one I've recently discovered is actually something pretty special. I always thought this was just something everyone could do, but I seem to have a knack for it without even trying: finding things. Not places, mind you. I have a terrible LACK of an ability to navigate in anything other than the wilderness (and only that latter part because my father taught me how at a very young age). But things. Items. It doesn't seem to matter whether or not I've seen it recently. As long as I know what it looks like, I seem to be able to find it.
The weird thing is it only seems to work on items that don't belong to me. I'm forever misplacing my keys or cell phone. But if J can't find HIS phone, I think for a minute, and then tell him where it is. I don't know why I know it's there. But it usually is.
I wonder what gifts my other friends and family have. They may not realize it's a gift. They may simply do them or use them without thinking, like breathing or walking. Do you know yours?
April 09, 2011
Spring Hath Sprung
Last night, the rain washed the world clean again.
It started just before I went to sleep, and continued on sporadically throughout the night, a cold drizzle just enough to wet the thirst of the waiting earth and the new seedlings germinating within.
The air was exceptionally cold yesterday, a sharp chill contrasting the glowing warmth of the sunlight. In the shade I shivered as the breeze bit deep through my layers of clothes. In the sun I began to sweat and removed by jacket. In the car, baking in the light for most of the morning, I actually rolled the windows down to let the chilly wind cool me off... only to quickly roll them back up again seconds later because of just how chilly it was. This morning, the rain had gently dampened the air, which the sun was slowly trying to warm. Still quite cool, still uncomfortable in a t-shirt, but welcome clean fresh crisp air. I opened the windows to get a cross-breeze going as I began my morning routine.
The cat was being unusually affectionate, so I followed her to the balcony to let her enjoy what warm sun basted the plants in golden light. The edge of the balcony always gets quite wet when it rains, and I was wearing socks, so I didn't go to the railing, but rather folded my arms across my chest and admired the breathtaking view from a few feet back. Our vista spans the La Mesa valley, and the rolling mountains that enclose it like a tidy nest. (I am still getting used to calling them mountains, as my childhood insists they are just large hills.) The rain had washed the air so clear I could see the individual shrubs on the furthest mountainside, where shadows of clouds darkened the earth in shapeless patterns. The cars on the freeway interchange glinted as the sunlight hit them, probably washed clean from the welcome rains. Even the trees sparkled like diamonds with wet leaves as the morning breeze softly wove through their branches. The finches and hummingbirds argued and bragged in such sweet voices that - although I knew they weren't singing the beauty of the world like I was in that moment - I enjoyed it nonetheless.
It was, in fact, one of the most beautiful mornings I had enjoyed in quite some time. The sunlight warmed my feet and legs as I stood, breathing in the crisp air, soaking in the beauty that life had to offer.
My attention turned to my modest balcony garden, the plants having been watered by the rain, and checked to see if anything new had come up. The nasturtium had recently lost a blossom, but still proudly bobbed one orange head for all to see. Three new buds were days away from bursting open. I would have to be patient. I stooped to see if any of the seeds from expired blossoms were ready to drop, that I might harvest them and replant them.
And then it happened. Without warning or preface, it happened.
A ruby-throated hummingbird, his green plumage announcing his masculinity, boldly swooped into my little balcony, to take a look at the blossoming nasturtium as well.
I held my breath. Surly this little creature, delicate and fragile as he was, would see me move in a moment - or at least the cat, who I could not see in my peripheral vision - and dart away. But no - he hovered there, cautious but unrelenting, wings a complete blur, black eyes bright and shining. In fact, rather than dart away, he came closer.
Before I could fully grasp the situation, he was buzzing next to my head, not more than a foot away. Perhaps he thought I was some strange flower. Perhaps he was testing his boundaries. Perhaps he didn't even see me at all and wanted to check if there were new blossoms behind me. But no, he faced me, his tiny needle-like beak pointed at me, eyes fixed on my face, as though gaging whether or not I was friend or foe. His wings beat so fast they thrummed in my ears, with such force I could feel the sound. He bobbed this way, that way, never more than a few inches, staying very close by. Seconds ticked by like minutes. I have no idea how long we stayed like that, but it was no short time.
Eventually I suppose he grew bored with me, and flew back out, a few feet from the railing. He still looked at me, and bobbed a few more times, before the cat swished her tail and he found refuge in the tree across the way. He appeared completely unafraid, simply confident that he had established his territory.
I had to reengage my lungs. My heart pounded in my throat. What happened was truly magical, and I was still reeling from it.
Hummingbirds are little balls of energy. In the Medicine Wheel, they are heralds of Joy, tiny beings of light and air and happiness. I have held one in my hand once. They weigh almost nothing, as though they are made of thoughts and fairy dust, with a few feathers thrown over. I felt blessed to have touched such an elusive magical creature. It was something akin to touching a dragonscale or finding a stray hair of a unicorn. When I think about it, the imprint of the tiny beast is still felt on the palms of my hands. This is no mere bird.
And now, for a second time in my life, a hummingbird has swooped into my ordinary world, and touched it with gossamer breath from thrumming wings. Doubly blessed by a herald of Joy.
I wonder how Nana would have felt. She had an uncanny gift with the creatures. She lived in the same house for over forty years, and every day would stand by the kitchen window and watch them visit her feeder as she did dishes or cooked. If the feeder needed refilling, she would take it down and clean it out... while the impatient diners would flit just outside the window, chirruping insistently. "I know, I know," she would say, "you just be patient!" They were her friends. More than that, they were almost her totem animal... she had hummingbird paraphernalia all over her house: magnets, pictures, glass window-hangings, figurines, even her door-harp.
... I wonder if that little guy was sent by Nana. Maybe she told them all about her family. Maybe he recognized me from the stories she tells them. Maybe, maybe not. All I know is I have had a visitation today I will not soon forget.
It started just before I went to sleep, and continued on sporadically throughout the night, a cold drizzle just enough to wet the thirst of the waiting earth and the new seedlings germinating within.
The air was exceptionally cold yesterday, a sharp chill contrasting the glowing warmth of the sunlight. In the shade I shivered as the breeze bit deep through my layers of clothes. In the sun I began to sweat and removed by jacket. In the car, baking in the light for most of the morning, I actually rolled the windows down to let the chilly wind cool me off... only to quickly roll them back up again seconds later because of just how chilly it was. This morning, the rain had gently dampened the air, which the sun was slowly trying to warm. Still quite cool, still uncomfortable in a t-shirt, but welcome clean fresh crisp air. I opened the windows to get a cross-breeze going as I began my morning routine.
The cat was being unusually affectionate, so I followed her to the balcony to let her enjoy what warm sun basted the plants in golden light. The edge of the balcony always gets quite wet when it rains, and I was wearing socks, so I didn't go to the railing, but rather folded my arms across my chest and admired the breathtaking view from a few feet back. Our vista spans the La Mesa valley, and the rolling mountains that enclose it like a tidy nest. (I am still getting used to calling them mountains, as my childhood insists they are just large hills.) The rain had washed the air so clear I could see the individual shrubs on the furthest mountainside, where shadows of clouds darkened the earth in shapeless patterns. The cars on the freeway interchange glinted as the sunlight hit them, probably washed clean from the welcome rains. Even the trees sparkled like diamonds with wet leaves as the morning breeze softly wove through their branches. The finches and hummingbirds argued and bragged in such sweet voices that - although I knew they weren't singing the beauty of the world like I was in that moment - I enjoyed it nonetheless.
It was, in fact, one of the most beautiful mornings I had enjoyed in quite some time. The sunlight warmed my feet and legs as I stood, breathing in the crisp air, soaking in the beauty that life had to offer.
My attention turned to my modest balcony garden, the plants having been watered by the rain, and checked to see if anything new had come up. The nasturtium had recently lost a blossom, but still proudly bobbed one orange head for all to see. Three new buds were days away from bursting open. I would have to be patient. I stooped to see if any of the seeds from expired blossoms were ready to drop, that I might harvest them and replant them.
And then it happened. Without warning or preface, it happened.
A ruby-throated hummingbird, his green plumage announcing his masculinity, boldly swooped into my little balcony, to take a look at the blossoming nasturtium as well.
I held my breath. Surly this little creature, delicate and fragile as he was, would see me move in a moment - or at least the cat, who I could not see in my peripheral vision - and dart away. But no - he hovered there, cautious but unrelenting, wings a complete blur, black eyes bright and shining. In fact, rather than dart away, he came closer.
Before I could fully grasp the situation, he was buzzing next to my head, not more than a foot away. Perhaps he thought I was some strange flower. Perhaps he was testing his boundaries. Perhaps he didn't even see me at all and wanted to check if there were new blossoms behind me. But no, he faced me, his tiny needle-like beak pointed at me, eyes fixed on my face, as though gaging whether or not I was friend or foe. His wings beat so fast they thrummed in my ears, with such force I could feel the sound. He bobbed this way, that way, never more than a few inches, staying very close by. Seconds ticked by like minutes. I have no idea how long we stayed like that, but it was no short time.
Eventually I suppose he grew bored with me, and flew back out, a few feet from the railing. He still looked at me, and bobbed a few more times, before the cat swished her tail and he found refuge in the tree across the way. He appeared completely unafraid, simply confident that he had established his territory.
I had to reengage my lungs. My heart pounded in my throat. What happened was truly magical, and I was still reeling from it.
Hummingbirds are little balls of energy. In the Medicine Wheel, they are heralds of Joy, tiny beings of light and air and happiness. I have held one in my hand once. They weigh almost nothing, as though they are made of thoughts and fairy dust, with a few feathers thrown over. I felt blessed to have touched such an elusive magical creature. It was something akin to touching a dragonscale or finding a stray hair of a unicorn. When I think about it, the imprint of the tiny beast is still felt on the palms of my hands. This is no mere bird.
And now, for a second time in my life, a hummingbird has swooped into my ordinary world, and touched it with gossamer breath from thrumming wings. Doubly blessed by a herald of Joy.
I wonder how Nana would have felt. She had an uncanny gift with the creatures. She lived in the same house for over forty years, and every day would stand by the kitchen window and watch them visit her feeder as she did dishes or cooked. If the feeder needed refilling, she would take it down and clean it out... while the impatient diners would flit just outside the window, chirruping insistently. "I know, I know," she would say, "you just be patient!" They were her friends. More than that, they were almost her totem animal... she had hummingbird paraphernalia all over her house: magnets, pictures, glass window-hangings, figurines, even her door-harp.
... I wonder if that little guy was sent by Nana. Maybe she told them all about her family. Maybe he recognized me from the stories she tells them. Maybe, maybe not. All I know is I have had a visitation today I will not soon forget.
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