Sharing the Sandbox

It’s strange to think that one year ago at this time, I was getting ready to graduate with a Master’s Degree. All that happened since then; the joy of having my whole family, including my dad and his fiancé come out to see me; my dad getting to see me perform my final for acting class, and his commenting on how surprised and impressed he was at my performance. (And my own bits of, A little late to notice that I’m talented, but thanks.) My mom and brother witnessing me read a poem at the “Spiritual” commencement ceremony, and getting to experience what I’d been trying to do for two years in school. The positive feedback from strangers and listeners.

The bits of momentum I had then; the job hunting beginning, but not too worried. The calls with the ‘this would be so perfect for me!’ start-up arts education school and gallery… who could only pay $30k. The trolling of craigslist for apartments and roommates in New Jersey, because maybe it was time to go back. The increase in the fevered pitch of anxiety and worry about money, and jobs, and position, and location, and future, and security.

Four months of that, till I was hired where I am now, when I had literally $3.98 in my bank account at my first paycheck.

The oscillation between those moments of triumph and community, and those moments of perceived failure and desolation. The poor hard wrenching of my psyche and little heart and big ego, ending indeed in cancer.

I mean, I went to Hawaii because of cancer (and friends’ generosity). I’m working through truly old relationship patterns because I have to, because they’re here. I have formed strong friendships with people I barely knew because they showed up for me with a plate of cupcakes, a bowl of soup, a tub of pudding.

Someone told me last week that it sounded like I was postponing joy until I had a different job and job title. When, in fact, that’s backwards. The job is what it is, and will be until it isn’t. (said Alice.) But I’m the thing that can change, and I am.

Those things that brought me joy, community, and a sense of self and self-esteem last year at this time—acting, performing my work, meeting up with playful friends—those are the things that I’m grabbing back to again. My friend’s band I sang with the other week has two other gigs in June they’ve invited me to sing with. I have two writing groups set up, a softball team I’ll begin playing with in June, and callouses that please oh please I hope form soon on my poor pinky from playing my guitar again, however inexpertly.

I mean, I put videos on facebook of me singing! The thing I always have said no one knows I do. It’s time that you do.

I have a play that I’m in with a host of folks I love, and my job title is still the same.

I have to budget carefully, owing several months of backrent from when I was sick, and I proposed a monthly poker night with my friend who just moved close by.

I bought a ticket home to see a best friend get married, and I just finished chemo two months ago.

Joy can coexist next to financial insecurity, job dissatisfaction, and even debt.

I don’t think I knew this before.

And I certainly didn’t practice it.

One year ago, I was getting prepared to graduate; I had pride, a grin the size of Wisconsin, and family and friends supporting me. Truthfully, there is no reason--aside from my own stubborn curmudgeonness--that this year I shouldn't have the same.