Perhaps
my days here are numbered. Perhaps the heavy curtain is closing on my
time here in Birmingham, its ruffled edges hanging lifeless on the stage
that once paid tribute to this listless routine. It's not that I
planned to end my sojourn early; far from it. I intended to settle here
for three years, three swift years that would carry me into my early
thirties and finally usher in the hallmarks of adulthood that forever
elude me. But this was but an idle dream. A single note from my employer
saw to that.
"Not meeting expectations," it said.
Three
words to remove any doubt of what I inwardly knew to be true. Three
words to lay bare the apprehension of a man already racked with fear. In
an instant I realized that the charade was over; I had been found out.
My desperate attempts at professionalism could no longer conceal the
plain truth of my predicament. I simply don't know what I'm doing. I'm
not qualified. I have always known that, and what's worse, they knew it
too.
And
yet there is something fundamentally liberating about the prospect of
losing one's job. It signals an old chapter's end to be sure, but does
it not also open a new one? Does it not remind us that life is more than
a paycheck, more than a daily routine interrupted only by the
occasional gnawing of hunger both biological and existential? Losing
one's job is indeed a loss of livelihood, but it is not the loss of life
itself. It is not the loss of identity. And that is what I must
continually remind myself of. This job is not my life, my purpose, or
even my passion. It is a paycheck...all it ever should be.
After
receiving the news I called my father. His wise counsel is never far
from me and its endowment is a gift I readily accept. I told him I was
frustrated, frustrated at myself for giving so many of the best years of
my life over to the pursuit of fulfilling only my basest needs. I need
to eat, I need clothes and a roof over my head. But at times I feel that
I sacrifice my soul to attain such things. I crunch numbers into a spreadsheet while
my quill remains dry. My father reminded me that my responsibilities at
this point in life are only to myself. I have no wife. I have no
children...I suppose I can take some solace in that. Should I choose, I
could pack my world into my car and set out for new adventures and a new
place to call home. I have done this before, many times in fact. There
is something alluring in such freedom, a rush I have felt in nothing
else. But this routine grows old and I do long to settle down sometimes.
Next
week I may be fired. Most likely, the hammer will fall three months
from now. Then where shall I go? In my free time, I find myself
daydreaming of returning to DC. The memories I have of my time there
tarry through my mind like glimpses of some distant Xanadu with all the
promises its myth entails. I fantasize of slowly strolling the weathered
trails of the National Mall and ascending the steps of the Lincoln
Memorial to watch the westward sunset. I long for the thrill of DuPont
and the unforeseen revelry a night spent in its unique corridors
entails. More than anything, I need to be at the crossroads of the
world, a place where our fathers' footsteps never stray too far from my
own. I need to feel the rush of history sweep me into another time where
for a moment my path intertwines with an eternal grace. It is a strange
thing to say, perhaps even a distinction that has seized me within its
own peculiarity, but I fell in love with that city and my longing to
return has never been far from my waking mind.
A
stream of consciousness is all this post is. The idle ramblings of a
man once again about to lose his job and facing a most unsure future.
But I have a plan this time. My business is going well and I know what sort
of job to steer clear of going forward. Most importantly, I found my
passion. It is a passion given meaning by a goal, a goal that moves
nearer to completion every day. I will not speak of it here, but if it
fulfills my expectations then there will be no need to keep this true
passion of mine hidden any longer. It has provided an insulation against
the professional turmoil that my floundering career seems inexorably
tied to. And if I lose my job, if boulders from the Rock of Gibraltar
come crashing down upon me, I will simply step aside and seek refuge
behind this sculpture I am creating. Each word hews David from the rock.
Each pen stroke brings me closer to freedom.
