(Downtown Johnson City. Image from the wonderful blog, Appalachian Treks.)
Years ago, someone held my future in her hands and suggested I change jobs. Keep in mind this was a year after I graduated directly into the worst economy since THE GREAT DEPRESSION. That comment astounds me for its unfathomable upper-class non-understanding of a shit economy—you know, down here among us working plebes. I was alright at making it all work, but she thought it would make me more impressive. S’all good, though. She no longer holds my future.
A few months ago, I find myself asking: from my eventual deathbed which will I regret more? a) Turning down a (potential) career that paid well but sucked the fire out of my bones, or b) taking a few years to do something I struggle to be good at but pays pittance. And then figure things out if it doesn’t work. I won’t be around forever, you know. So you know what I chose.
I go back to what I do best: watching, reading and listening; sleeping; sitting, thinking about trees; sitting, contemplating the immensity of the sky; rocking on a brick patio late after sunset with mosquitoes, naively attempting the beautiful. Yes, I realize all the things I’m good at don’t pay. I was never really good at being paid well, though. Those boots never fit.
Isn’t this just absolutely exciting?