Last year at this time I quit my job with no good prospects in front of me. This was in part because of my health (doctors are stumped, so I'll name my disease Uysterious Coughing Syndrome - you can decide how to pronounce it). The other reason factoring into leaving Arts Academy? I hated it.
When it comes to money, I am a risk taker. Logically, I should not have quit. Yet, I'm so glad I did, because I landed my dream job.
So, with everything clicking along so nicely, getting scary looking results from the routine monitoring of my Usterious C-S made perfect sense in a world that often appears to be run by a nine-year-old god with conduct disorder and impulse control "differences." He is pouring lighter fluid on our beautifully constructed ant hills (e.g. Notre Dame) and crushing us with his foot every time we get a little too confident. This particular imaginary god is definitely a boy. Sorry boys.
Clearly, I'm still in a bad mood, and that makes me cynical. I am not truly cynical -- honestly -- but when my goals for life seem like they are purposely being thwarted by nature, then I get a little cranky and sarcastic.
I am less convinced that I am going to die, which is good. I'm not fully convinced. It has been interesting living through those few days, though, trying to figure it out. I was filling out some quicky-internet will and thinking about leaving messages for my children and how best to do that. Coincidentally, I have been watching After Life with Ricky Gervais and I wondered if it had something to do with the great patterns I see coming about in my life that ultimately never do me as much good as I imagine they should.
The point is, my lungs look terrible and they are loaded with nodules - even the "ground glass" type which is associated with lung cancer. Sounds like cancer. Yet it is looking like inflammation from Usterious Coughing Syndrome - so after a course of prednisone they will probably shrink or go away. And I don't have any other cancer symptoms. So I get to be on prednisone and wait three months.
In the meantime, I will take it as a wake-up call to get ready to die (everybody ought to). I'll get my will figured out and begin writing more so I can leave more of my thoughts and hopes for my children... to my children. I hate that my parents died when I was young and that they have been gone so long and missed so much (well, they may have seen everything - god forbid - but I haven't been able to enjoy the flesh and blood realities of parents in a moment of my adult life.).
The one thing I thought that I want to do before I die is be less guarded and more honest. Being a teacher, there is pressure to be careful about what you say and do. I'm not saying that my desire is to say or do anything terribly controversial - but I do avoid expressing some thought that I have about religion, spirituality, and society in the raw way that I would like to. I am careful with my words, but I'm not sure that makes a ton of sense. I am not generally a fan of the "F" word because it is overused (blame Six Feet Under and The Sopranos for the trend) and used as filler so often that it has lost its power. Yet for someone who does not curse regularly, I think I have a right to use it in a judicious - and perhaps funny - way that makes me feel powerful. You -- reading this -- may not understand. But this, after all, is not your self-indulgent online journal. It's mine.
I just saw a show on creativity and one of the great creators talked about how honesty is so important in creativity. Honesty can be tough. It can make a person feel vulnerable. I'm going to take a deep breath and share the overwhelming thought I had when I thought I was going to die earlier in this month:
For most of my life, I have been 5'7", 165 pounds (give or take five), and "pretty" by white-girl societal standards. I am strong. I'm a good runner. I am not all muscle. I am not all fat. In no way do I live up to the "thin ideal." Thinking I would die soon, I looked back on my life and thought about how much I resent every person who ever made me feel like I was not okay the way I was. In other words -- how many people encouraged me to lose weight, talked behind my back about my weight or size, or judged me without ever knowing me because of my size. The worst offender in all of this was me -- but young me was also a victim of the hundreds or thousands of messages I got that I needed to change - that I would be better, happier, and more worthy if I changed. In my fifties now, looking back on that.. I wish I could tell every one of those people to fuck off and figure out your own problems.
Hey, Every One of You:
When it comes to money, I am a risk taker. Logically, I should not have quit. Yet, I'm so glad I did, because I landed my dream job.
So, with everything clicking along so nicely, getting scary looking results from the routine monitoring of my Usterious C-S made perfect sense in a world that often appears to be run by a nine-year-old god with conduct disorder and impulse control "differences." He is pouring lighter fluid on our beautifully constructed ant hills (e.g. Notre Dame) and crushing us with his foot every time we get a little too confident. This particular imaginary god is definitely a boy. Sorry boys.
Clearly, I'm still in a bad mood, and that makes me cynical. I am not truly cynical -- honestly -- but when my goals for life seem like they are purposely being thwarted by nature, then I get a little cranky and sarcastic.
I am less convinced that I am going to die, which is good. I'm not fully convinced. It has been interesting living through those few days, though, trying to figure it out. I was filling out some quicky-internet will and thinking about leaving messages for my children and how best to do that. Coincidentally, I have been watching After Life with Ricky Gervais and I wondered if it had something to do with the great patterns I see coming about in my life that ultimately never do me as much good as I imagine they should.
The point is, my lungs look terrible and they are loaded with nodules - even the "ground glass" type which is associated with lung cancer. Sounds like cancer. Yet it is looking like inflammation from Usterious Coughing Syndrome - so after a course of prednisone they will probably shrink or go away. And I don't have any other cancer symptoms. So I get to be on prednisone and wait three months.
In the meantime, I will take it as a wake-up call to get ready to die (everybody ought to). I'll get my will figured out and begin writing more so I can leave more of my thoughts and hopes for my children... to my children. I hate that my parents died when I was young and that they have been gone so long and missed so much (well, they may have seen everything - god forbid - but I haven't been able to enjoy the flesh and blood realities of parents in a moment of my adult life.).
The one thing I thought that I want to do before I die is be less guarded and more honest. Being a teacher, there is pressure to be careful about what you say and do. I'm not saying that my desire is to say or do anything terribly controversial - but I do avoid expressing some thought that I have about religion, spirituality, and society in the raw way that I would like to. I am careful with my words, but I'm not sure that makes a ton of sense. I am not generally a fan of the "F" word because it is overused (blame Six Feet Under and The Sopranos for the trend) and used as filler so often that it has lost its power. Yet for someone who does not curse regularly, I think I have a right to use it in a judicious - and perhaps funny - way that makes me feel powerful. You -- reading this -- may not understand. But this, after all, is not your self-indulgent online journal. It's mine.
I just saw a show on creativity and one of the great creators talked about how honesty is so important in creativity. Honesty can be tough. It can make a person feel vulnerable. I'm going to take a deep breath and share the overwhelming thought I had when I thought I was going to die earlier in this month:
For most of my life, I have been 5'7", 165 pounds (give or take five), and "pretty" by white-girl societal standards. I am strong. I'm a good runner. I am not all muscle. I am not all fat. In no way do I live up to the "thin ideal." Thinking I would die soon, I looked back on my life and thought about how much I resent every person who ever made me feel like I was not okay the way I was. In other words -- how many people encouraged me to lose weight, talked behind my back about my weight or size, or judged me without ever knowing me because of my size. The worst offender in all of this was me -- but young me was also a victim of the hundreds or thousands of messages I got that I needed to change - that I would be better, happier, and more worthy if I changed. In my fifties now, looking back on that.. I wish I could tell every one of those people to fuck off and figure out your own problems.
Hey, Every One of You:
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