inner light, inner grace

I don't usually attend much to mass emailings (jokes, etc), but the sentiment behind this one was especially lovely:

Albert Schweitzer said so well, "Sometimes our light goes out but is blown into flame by another human being. Each of us owes deepest thanks to those who have rekindled this light." Who rekindles your light? Who blows your light into flame
when it threatens to flicker out? ... If you need the light of your spirit rekindled during a bleak time, there are those who will listen and care. Likewise, a great and wonderful gift you can give is to fan into flame the spirit that is in another. Rekindling someone's flame is ... important ..., for few of us can go it all alone. The greatest weapon against darkness is, and always has been light.

So this has been an ongoing source of conversation for Robert and me. I always appreciated our yoga teacher because of his unending ability to see the light in everyone, something I aspire to but often fall short of. (Don't you just see darkness in some people? I'll admit that I do. I keep working at it though.)

We (R and I) were conversing about spirituality with a minister years ago (social situation), when all of a sudden she stepped back in a bit of shock and said "You mean, you think everyone has a little grace machine inside of them?" "Yes, I replied, don't you?" And it turned out, it was Robert's turn to be shocked. I guess those devout Presbyterians amongst whom he was raised think that grace happens outside of the self, not inside. My little grace machine is almost a physical entity. I know where it sits. And yeah, its little motor threatens to give out every now and then, but it always starts back up again.

So yes, that little light burns brightly most of the time. But my family (the one I've created, which sometimes includes my out-of-the-box original family) makes a difference when the light threatens to go out. Some members of the family know who they are. Others have no clue or little clue, and that's fine. You often don't know whose life you've touched or how or why. You just have to trust that it happens all the time, more often than you realize. And doesn't just knowing or even sensing that you've made a difference serve to keep your own little light burning brighter?

Written in deepest gratitude.

delightful snippet of the day (DSOD?)

This from Robert, who found it on the Onion (a satirical online 'zine):

Homosexual Tearfully Admits To Being Governor Of New Jersey.

Update on project

About ten days ago, I wrote about a job interview I was getting ready for. It happened a week ago. I was there for four-and-a-half hours, nominally talking to three people. But in the beginning, I was parked in the employee lounge where I found two people to quiz. One was a software engineer; the other turned out to be the CFO. Officially, I also spoke to the head of HR, the director of engineering, and the VP of engineering.

B was there, too, but for a shorter time. Unfortunately, she's under tremendous pressure at work, but has been making time for this adventure.

We were told not to expect to hear anything terribly soon, and the VP was out on Friday and Monday. On Tuesday, we got an email asking if we could come in "very soon," either that day or the next day. (I get the impression that they want the person to start six months ago.)

So, early yesterday, B and I went back. This time, we (separately) talked to the Founder/CTO/Chairman and the President/CEO. I was there for two and a half hours and ended my visit with a brief chat with my connection who works there.

If they decide to proceed to the next step, we'd like to go back and talk to some engineers and get a demo of the product. I'm still ok with the decision going either way; I realize that job-sharing feels risky and new to everyone. But they've stopped inviting us to the next step while simultaneously telling us they are not making a commitment to job-sharing. This last time, we just received the invitation. And yesterday the pres was running numbers in his head trying to figure out how to acccommodate our requests in a creative way.

Sounds interesting. And I've always liked B, but my admiration for her increases as we continue to work together. I'm slightly intrigued that collectively, we've clicked with everyone we've talked with, but we seem to click with different people. I'm also amused that people keep asking "but how will you handle this." I keep thinking -- simple, just like any other project with more than one person, but assuming that each person will work less than half time. Maybe I'm missing something. Obviously, there are plenty of issues to figure out, but to me, that's just not one of them.

We get a bit of a break now. The whole company is off in Maine. So we probably won't hear from them until sometime next week.

Reconnecting with an old friend

Today I did something very brave.

Last fall, during the final steps of designing my addition, the builder and I met to comb over the drawings. I called the designer with my list of changes, got a promise that he'd drop by the next day to pick everything up so that he could further refine what he'd done, and then never heard from him again.

At Christmas, I sent what I thought was a nice letter to the designer saying that our friendship was more important than our business relationship, and that to proceed with the former, we merely had to be in touch. Nothing.

I began to wonder whether I'd somehow wounded my friend. In the face of silence, it's hard to know.

Meanwhile, the builder and I forged ahead. We made mental corrections to the drawings, and the builder finished the structural design. (It turns out that the design is interesting enough that it was nearly unbuildable. But cleverness and good software prevailed; my chair now sits on a very solid floor -- the whole rest of the house could fall down, but this floor will still be standing.)

A few weeks ago, the builder urged me to call the designer. (I've said very little about what happened, mostly because I had guesses but didn't really know.) The thing is, it's often hard for me to pick up the phone and call someone, especially after a long silence. Well, even without long silences, it can be hard for me to reach out.

So today I called the designer. He seemed delighted to hear from me and perhaps a little surprised that I'm neither mad nor was I held up by his lack of communication. Turns out he's been in a very rough spot. I really know very little of the history of his rough spots but he seems to be on the mend again. He reports that he's decided to abandon the design field but now wants to work with kids; in all his ups and downs, he says he's never let a child down.

I told him it would give me great pleasure if he'd come see what he's designed. I'm both eager to see him and eager to see his reaction to the near-finished results of his imaginative mind. So with all luck, I'll be seeing my old friend tomorrow morning. That's a small weight off my shoulders.

And what are all those short people dressed as?

Ever make the mistake of going to a costume store a few days before Halloween? Total pandemonium -- shopping carts all over the aisles, whining kids, tired parents, stuff pulled off the shelves and not put back. People are frantic and a little aimless.

Well fast-forward about ten months, or spin back about two. Yesterday, without thinking, I went to da-da-da-da, Staples. Thick in the middle of the dreaded Back To School rush. Yup, all the hallmarks. Some parents actually had lists in their hands and were sticking to them. But there were kids who HAD TO HAVE the folder with the picture of --insert your favorite sports team-- on the cover. Some of them were just whining, close to meltdown, but some of them had already learned to use complicated logic to get their way. It was hard to get down the aisles what with the shopping carts parked like SUVs (badly) and all the people clustered around them for little conferences.

It's probably just as well that I needed office supplies, not clothes. I think I'll stay out of Marshalls for a while.

What's actually brewing (part 3)

Tired of reading yet? -grin-.


So now we're at that decision point about leaving my last job. I made yet another leap into the dark unknown and landed at home. I've been hanging out with the kitty, working on the house, doing my little contract gig, bit by bit learning to enjoy life again. I discovered that I can be a real homebody sometimes and that's perfectly fine. I've re-developed a correspondance with friends, have started my blog, and enjoyed those little moments between things, those moments that I've ordinarily had to rush through.

Oh. I had personal cards printed, like business cards, but more fun. Under profession, I put "writer."

But I didn't know what I'd do with the rest of my life, or even after the summer or next year. I decided not to stress about it. My image was that I'd slowly fade out of my profession into obscurity and find something else to dabble in while discovering my true passion. I might still do that.

And I've idly thought about other things to do besides what I know --

• Being a seasonal worker for H&R Block, preparing income taxes. Well, if that's so darned interesting, why haven't I rushed out to sign up for the classes that are starting next month? They're cheap (really cheap) and local -- about two miles away. Huh. Still observing.
• Write. About what? Not sure, but I'd start with the book the Curmudgeon and I are planning.
• Work with people who are dying. No -- not a good idea. I get to choose my friends, but I don't get to choose the people I work with or worse sometimes, their families. Better to keep doing that on an as-needed basis. At least that's my feeling right now.

And then... a few weeks ago, a former colleague, one I like a lot, asked me to apply for a job at his company. He'd actually mentioned the possibility of a job opening around the time I left my old job. So when the job opened up, I kind of blew him off. I proposed that he talk to my friend K, but apparently K decided that it's not the right time for him to take that job.

So my friend came back to me. This time, I read the job description more carefully and felt fairly enthusiastic about the job except that I don't think I'm up for a full-time job right now and I don't think I want to be a sole writer at a company. That's what this job is.

So I tried to interest my friend B, who expressed some interest in the job. And then she proposed an idea that still has me intrigued -- that we job-share.

You know what? I'm just enjoying the process of working with B on this project (as we say at seders, dayenu, meaning, "it would have been enough."). I don't particularly care whether I get the job. That isn't actually true. I think I'd like to get the job with her, but it's also ok if I don't.

So late Friday, I submitted my resume and a cover letter. And today I got a call asking me to come in for an interview. I'll talk to B tomorrow night, and then go in for my first real job interview in nine years on Thursday. Nervous? Not really, because I realize that either outcome will make me happy.

A little history (part 2)

So, what did I think I'd be when I grew up? I'm still asking that question. But briefly, here are some of the influences that got me where I am today...

I always struggled with writing. Though I did well on standardized tests, I did much better on the math side than on the English side. I did study languages, though, and learned a lot about my own native one in the process.

In high school, I wrote a lot of papers. My 12th grade history teacher in particular insisted that we write multiple research papers, culminating with a huge project at the end of the year. I did mine on the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire (I got interested when I learned that my great grandfather wrote some of the reform laws in response to the tragedy.) In the absence of the web, I ended up doing a lot of research at the Library of Congress and one of the big labor libraries in DC. I felt really good about the experience. And looking back, writing that paper was a huge accomplishment.

Despite my high school successes, I decided I was terrified of writing. I applied to two colleges, and one required graduates to write a senior thesis. Always thinking ahead, I went with the other college, which was also my parents' alma mater. (That, and there was a *ton* of parental pressure from one of said parents.) In college, I started to major in math, then ended up in French, where, yes, I wrote more papers. I also got deeply involved in writing a paper on the history of birth control for a Soc/Anthro class. I still quote facts from that paper.

I dropped out of college and went back to study computer science. I dutifully took one English course (lots of little papers) and one multi-disciplinary course in which I wrote a paper on AIDS. This was before I could find any published books on the topic, so back to the library I went to peer into reams of microfiche. I wrote another paper I was very happy with. I dug deep and got a lot out of the experience. And I still quote facts from that paper too.

By this time, I had worked my way through sewing costumes for the Boston Ballet and being a secretary (and some-time editor) to a civil engineer at MIT. I was working at Digital Equipment Corporation and managed to apprentice myself to a programmer. I developed code for a while (but nothing normal -- it was all bleeding edge stuff -- and it all got thrown out in the end) until I had my first real dissatisfaction. Only one part of my brain was being used -- the technical side -- and I was working in isolation. Somehow, I ended up doing some writing and liked it. I got to exercise my technical side *and* my liberal arts side and I had to talk to lots of people and I got to do all sorts of research.

Digital started going through hard times and eventually came to the conclusion that it and I needed a divorce. This was devastating to me, and it really did feel that way to me (I'd already gone through one actual divorce by that time, hopefully my last one, so I did know what one felt like. I also realized that I had survived one, so I'd definitely survive this.) Through two more jobs, I found bosses willing to take a chance on me, shoving me into deeper and deeper water, and... I could swim!!

About nine years ago, I realized that I needed to leave my position, though the realization did not come as smoothly as one might think. It came in fits and starts, backs and forths, until the realization was almost made in hindsight. But it all led to a new job at a small company -- 150 people -- doing interesting work and meeting with great success in the market place.

The group had been looking for a technical writer for months and hired me!! I was shoved into deeper and deeper water and kept swimming for all it was worth, and somehow managed to do a good job. My two bosses, Tom and Karl, were wonderful about rewarding me (not that they hesitated to read me the riot act when they felt I needed that too). Great experience. Although the company changed continuously until I left a few months ago, the last set of changes were unbearable for me on so many different levels. I realized that I could sit around and complain about it while dutifully performing my (by then meaningless) little tasks, or I could leave. So I left. That decision didn't come easily either -- it took about six months.

There's been a lot of learning through all of this; certainly I've developed a feeling of confidence about my work, though I also feel there's a lot out there for me to learn. I've never had a career goal, but instead have let the currents carry me. And the currents have done a pretty darned good job, so far at least.

But there's more.

I've done a lot of work on myself, physically and mentally, and I've worked through a tremendous amount of constant pain. It's one of my greatest accomplishments, though not one I talk about a lot because it's so personal and probably boring to others. And also, I'm not exactly cured -- I live with some physical challenges all the time -- but I manage it, and it eats at me far less than it used to decades ago. I live alongside of it, but it doesn't define me like it used to.

In the personal challenges category, I was part of the end-of-life experience for four friends -- I sat with them through their sicknesses, and talked to them about their past and current hopes and aspirations. Talk about learning -- there are few deeper wells. They all had something to say and teach about their careers.

• Mark was an architect who was able to accomplish great things at a young age. Had he lived, I think he would have become one of those famous people with little bands of groupies following him. He designed four stunning buildings before he died at 37. He said one day that his work was a legacy, the way children would have been. They were his mark on the world that would persist long after he was gone. One of the last presents he gave me was his portfolio, a collection of drawings and photographs he'd put together for the job hunt he was planning before he got sick. And after the gift was made, he laid back on a pillow and breathed a sigh of relief. His work was done. He died four months later while I was visiting him.
• Tom was a secretary for the phone company. So what? My mom wouldn't stop yelling at me when I was a secretary. Well, Tom's older sister was the first person in her entire family to go to college. And Tom was the second person to get a professional job, one not in a factory. His family was so proud of him; he had exceeded all their dreams. He died when he was 31.
• Char was a writer. She worked with me as a technical writer, but I think it was secretly so she could get more writing in. She loved to write, and she used her craft to perform great works in the world, saving lives, actually, with some of it.
• And Wynn was an accountant who worked for a Big Firm. Except he was someone who cared deeply about his job and his coworkers. Shortly before he died, a friend and I were sitting with him and heard him doing sums in his head. The friend asked whether he was doing income taxes. Wynn said yes, he had to do them because the deadline was soon. (How did he know? His brain had literally been destroyed by then.) We convinced him that the deadline had passed and that his officemates had done all the work for him. He was worried that it had been a burden for them and we reassured him that everyone had done a little bit and it wasn't hard at all. What a relief. He stopped worrying, got on with the business of dying, and was gone within two days.

Finally, on a much lighter note, I learned, or actually, relearned, a new skill relatively recently, one I've alluded to repeatedly in this narrative. I mentioned earlier that I've been in a lot of pain over my life. This has kept me from pursuing most sports because I'd just end up in more pain. Two years ago, I was walking a lot for exercise and thought I was in fine shape. A doctor convinced me that I had to get in the pool and kick, kick, kick to address some specific issues I was facing. So, I found a pool and joined it. And it turned out I was in lousy shape. I couldn't even swim a length of the pool -- a mere 25 yards -- without getting completely out of breath. Little by little, I learned to swim more. And now I swim three miles a week. It's not a lot, but it's a big accomplishment for me. And I don't hurt worse as a result.

So I've faced lots of challenges, not all successfully, and learned a lot in the process.

Something's brewing (part 1)

My former colleague, Tania, suggested that I read Po Bronson's book, What Should I Do With My Life (or as IBM would have us say: What should I do with my life -ahem-). I think Karl also mentioned Po Bronson's name sometime this summer, though if he did, I don't remember anything else he said about it. So on the one hand, people are always recommending that I read books, and I've kind of given up on them (books, not people). It feels like a huge commitment for one thing. For another thing, I stay pretty busy reading things on the web, the newspaper, and magazines. On the other hand, something was telling me that I should read this book.

So I ordered it. And on a quiet day, I picked it up. Even though it's taking me more than one day to read (my high-barrier criterion for weeding out books), I'm keeping at it. Bronson corresponded with 100s of people, then met tens of them in person and interviewed them. But he didn't just passively listen and record -- he added bits from his own experience, gave advice, gently tried to steer, became a friend.

He then pulled out some complex themes as an organizing point and found connecting threads in the stories. It's a fascinating read -- deeply moving at times, funny at others, and there are some wonderful observations.

One is that you can do good or bad in any job. Good point. I've been thinking that I've *felt* like I was doing good in the job I had, BUT how can you say that technical writing is doing good when there are so many struggling non-profits in the world? Well, maybe I've rationalized the good aspects to myself, but why let others' opinions of "doing good" interfere with my own perceptions?

He also leaves some stories "unfinished" -- or maybe I should say unresolved. The stories finish on all sorts of notes, which I find pretty fascinating. It's not really over til (no fat ladies here) you die. You get to interact with all sorts of things in the world and do something with it all until that moment you take your last breath. (Of course, when you're on your death bed, you're going to be interacting a little differently than you do when you're healthy and running around like a nut.)

... to be continued

Back in the saddle

Yesterday, I visited with my co-author Gary to discuss a possible next book.

We spent some time talking about what had gone right at Atria/Pure Atria/Rational and what had gone wrong -- where we seemed to take the turn. He believes that no matter how bright the picture is, how wonderful the work environment, it will turn sour eventually. (His explanation is that Camelot turns into Brigadoon every time.) We talked about how soul-deadening the large company experience can be, and how at a large company, you can never have widespread effects on the company or your customers even after you reach the point in your career where you're capable of doing that type of work.

And then we sat down to discuss the next book. I went in expecting to enumerate our ideas, and walk away with a vague plan to do something someday. Over the last few months, we've casually tossed a couple of ideas back and forth. Yesterday, we settled on one, and then got to work. We decided who our audience would be, articulated the problem with current books of the same type, figured out how our book would be different, and started to map out -- not a table of contents -- but a structure at a higher level. We listed our deliverables and talked about having some kind of community participation.

Wow. I can tell you that I remember enjoying collaboration. I remember that feeling of being able to produce something better in a group than any individual could come up with. But yesterday, I was reminded of how good and nourishing that feeling really is. It's one of those sparks that keeps me going. And I can't wait to do more.

Alas, it'll probably be a month before we can pick this up again (Gary has a life), but still, I'm excited and eager. I haven't felt that about anything vaguely work-like in a long time. Happy, fine, pleasant, yes. But wanting to dig in? Bring it on!

well, that's a relief...

About 12 days ago, just as I was getting sick, I swam a mile, then mowed the lawn. Then the next week was a bit of a blur. Fortunately, my brain came back first; my body took a while to follow. This morning, I swam a mile and mowed the lawn in 93 degree heat no less, and... I'm hot. I'm not that tired. I'll probably cool off with some iced tea and a nice cool breeze blowing through. Not that being sick is fun, but it's a lot more fun when it's known to be temporary.

Violence begins at home

Well, well. Another woman disappears. Her husband desperately calls police (after, of course, going out to buy a new mattress) to report that his wife hasn't come home from her daily jog. His family stands behind him, united with her family. And of course, the stories leak out. She was ambitious, college-educated, willing to put her career and further education on hold in support of his career. Son of a doctor, brother of a doctor, he claimed to have a college degree (he didn't) and claimed to be accepted into med school (he wasn't) and even convinced her to pack their belongings to move thousands of miles so he could attend school. At last report, he was arrested for murder, even though they haven't yet found her body. It all sounds so sordid, so sad.

Or Laci Peterson. Or the kids who were murdered by their father last summer allegedly because he was angry about a custody battle he was fighting with his wife. (We'll never know why because he ended up killing himself while in prison.) Or the little boy who finally won a divorce from his father who is in jail for murdering the boy's mother but wanted involvement in his son's life.

I'm not sure why I react strongly to these stories. They're gripping and horrifying. I wonder, though, if part of me grieves not for them, but for myself -- for the violence that I experienced as a child, in my own home. (I used to joke -- but not really -- that it was safer for me to walk the streets of inner city Washington at night than it was to go home.) And somehow, it's all ok -- parents (or those playing the role) should have the right to "discipline" their children without intervention; men should have control over their women. We turn away, we don't intervene, we don't know that we should act, we don't know how to act. And it all continues.