Shirley's WebLog Archive
September 2003
Thursday, September 11, 2003
This is my first entry. I've been playing around with web pages for a few days now and find myself with very little to say. But don't worry -- this is not a usual problem. I haven't even figured out why I want to have this public web log (blog) anyway. Trendiness at this late date (age) seems kind of silly. It's an experiment really, to see whether I can discipline myself to write regularly, and to write for public consumption.
Expect more as the days go by.
Friday, September 12, 2003
Second day.
I've been spinning my wheels in some way or other the last while, since I got back from my trip (France, Scotland). I say that as though I haven't been spinning my wheels for ages. I'm not sure whether this web page is a procrastination or a very useful little exercise. Doesn't really matter I guess. I'm having fun doing it.
I've been reading a book called What Should I Do With My Life by Po Bronson. I picked it up as a gift for a certain graduate I know, but am saving it for a bit. Till he graduates. But in the meantime I'm reading it without bending any pages. It addresses the question of how we should live our lives -- how find the dream, "follow your bliss", figure out what we're 'meant' to be doing in this life. What's it all about, and how do I fit in? Oddly I find these questions still perplexing at the age of 51. Late bloomer I guess.
Anyway, the book is interesting because of the voyeuristic peak into other people's lives, but it's maybe really about the guy who wrote it. I spend a lot of time with women, read female authors too, and thought this book might give me some perspective on how men approach this topic too. Bronson's a writer, doing what he wanted, but still a bit puzzled about how that leads to happiness, fulfillment -- especially because one day he found himself unemployed. (Wonder if that sounds like anyone else.) Maybe the point isn't just to be happy ("Don't worry, be happy" the song goes.) Happiness is pretty elusive -- not really a state of being so much as a state of getting to.
Not making much sense here. I had a dreadful night last night. One of those restless nights when I just can't sleep. I swear I was tired, but each time I lay down, the covers got too hot, and my legs got restless. I think I finally went to sleep around 4, after reading a bit more of the book. Got up about 8:30, which would be late except I hadn't slept. So I figured I must just need some real exercise, and drove over to the north shore to hike up the Grouse Grind. I feel better now. I hope it works, and I sleep tonight.
Saturday, September 13, 2003
I did sleep pretty well last night, and long too. Didn't get up until 10, then took my time with breakfast and the paper. After that I took my bike out for a long ride through the woods; what an incredible pleasure. It occurs to me that I can't think of anywhere that would be more beautiful to live than two blocks away from this forest. I have been mulling over options about where to live once the kids move out. This is perhaps a bit early to think about it -- self-supporting children don't seem to be a reality for a while into the twenties anymore. But I do think about it. It's mixed in with my internal debates over what I should be doing with my time. That's a bad word, should. The puzzle is figuring out what I want to do with my time, not what I should do.
Today I wanted to work in my (what I like to call) garden. The morning glory is parched, but continues to fight for life. I dragged a bunch of it back through the fence. I can't stop the noise from travelling over to my neighbour Joy's house, but perhaps I can save her the grief of my weeds. I find that the forsythia behaves like a weed too. Actually, just about everything out there behaves like a weed -- must be something to do with my lack of attention. There are still raspberries growing, though the plants look almost as bad as last year when they really were choked with weeds. This year they are choked with lack of water, though I suppose the last few days have helped. This year is the closest I have come to getting the yard cleaned up. It's a project anyway, to make the place look presentable. I made some progress.
It's already 7:30 pm, and I haven't started my novel yet. Except in my head. I think I'll stop this now and go work on that. I'll report back tomorrow whether I made any progress there as well.
Sunday, September 14, 2003
Yikes! Yvonne has put a link to this page from her blog. It's all very well to go public, but how public do I want to be. And there she goes again saying I'm a good writer, and it causes me to feel all aw shucksy. I'll return the favour; just click here, and you can see what she's going on about.
It's Sunday, so I went to visit my Dad. This is a tradition started a few years ago, when I asked which day I should come visit, and he said Sundays at 11 would be good. Turns out that was when he used to be out, so I would visit with my step-mom, Roni. Roni died in February of this year of lung cancer metastisized to her liver. Yeah, she was a smoker. My mother also died of cancer; her's began in her bowel. There was a lot of deja vu in Roni's illness and dying, not least because of the cigarettes, but also because people will offer condolences for the death of my mother, and they are fifteen years late in that.
Anyway, I still go by to visit the house on Sundays as Roberta (step-sister) and I got into the routine. Since Roni died, Dad doesn't often go out anymore. Up until recently he didn't get up either, but lately he seems to be managing that. Sunday mornings he used to always go out for a walk with his old buddy Andy. The two of them were neighbours in Winnipeg when they were in their teens, so it's a pretty long friendship. But Dad seems to have given friendships a pass lately as he grieves. He is however up watching football on Sundays, a return to a lifelong habit. I still think it's a pretty boring game. I much prefer rugby. That can't be because my son plays, can it?
Anyway, I came home and dug in the garden again. I can actually see some progress, though what I'm doing so far is beating back the weeds. But I am trying to envision flowers growing in the spring. I think bulbs are in order, and seeing as a border is appearing along my east fence, I will have to plant something in it. It will start to seem pointless if I only weed the garden, but nothing is supposed to grow there, besides bugs, and there are lots of them.
Last night I did get a page written. Time will tell whether it really is part of my novel, but, a beginning.
Monday, September 15, 2003
More weeding today -- it supplies some kind of metaphor in my life. Beat back the weeds, and everything will be fine. Except I (so far) never seem to catch up. But I should cheer myself along anyway (notice the should word). I have five bags of garden debris lined up outside my fence, and I was thinking I've barely started. But in fact, I've cleared a phenomenal pile of morning glory and buttercups out of the yard. I am amazed at the network of roots under the ground too. I'm not done yet, either, weather depending. The battle will continue in the spring as new growth appears (new weeds). There's pruning too. I have to give some thought to the lawn (or what I call lawn) because it too is infested with the same weeds, and they will leap the barrier to my newly reclaimed borders in no time. This will be the first year that I am cleaned up in the fall though. Quite satisfying. I wonder how I will manage once I find a (paying) job.
Besides the garden, I have been working on an issue of PIBC News, a newsletter/magazine that I lay out. This is a paying job; I do four or five a year. This issue should pay off my VISA bill, which has mysteriously swelled.
With garden and magazine, no work on the mythical novel. I did write for a bit in my private journal today though, so this has been a good day for writing in spite of the apparent lack of progress.
I puzzle over how to get the right balance. I suppose that the gardening blitz makes sense, as soon it will rain (or at least that's what I would once have expected -- the weather no longer behaves). But it will; we haven't globally warmed ourself out of a rainforest yet. Then once the rains come, I can hunker down with my computer and work on Drew's story (that's a hint; the character's name).
Tuesday, September 16, 2003
My life seems to be passing pretty fast, marked out day by day like this, but what's happening? I'm going to have to make a point of doing this writing earlier in the day (it's 9:15 p.m. already). I just want to go get ready for bed, but have promised myself to take this task seriously so here I am.
Today I went up the Grind with my friend CW. We started doing this a couple of years ago, much to our amazement (questions of sanity enter into it too). Today the weather was dreich (that's a word I learned in Scotland, for grey, misty-rain, bleah weather). However, good for hiking -- just the view's not so sweet.
Back home I meant to bustle about doing all sorts of things (gardening?) and found myself talking to my son for a long time. Ate pizza, watched Jeopardy. Yoicks but time can go by in front of the tv set. So, I dragged myself from its mesmerizing stare, and came up here to check e-mail. Oh yeah, and to do the writing that makes me able to claim I'm a writer. Guilt. E-mail brought me a reminder of a contest which I meant to send an entry to. I have two days -- wonder if Canada Post can be trusted to get something to Surrey in two days. Maybe not -- I've been needing a road trip for awhile. Maybe I'll go write in a cafe in Surrey tomorrow. Anyway, I put together a little package and so will send out (or deliver) my entry tomorrow. I guess that means the writing life hasn't been entirely neglected today. Now I can go get ready for bed.
Wednesday, September 17, 2003
It's late again (9:30 p.m.), but I've had a good day. I spent a lot of it working away on PIBC News, the actual paid work that I do. I have a tendency to lose track of time when I'm doing layout work and it happened today. It's very nit-picky, but engrossing too. Puzzle-like. Anyway, I caught myself in time and raced down to SFU Harbour Centre, just in time for an information meeting on their Writer's Studio. This is something Vaughan had talked about (one of my writing buddies) and she convinced me that there was no reason not to go, as the meeting was free. The program of course is not, and I have to decide now whether I want to do it.
The meeting was very good; answered questions I didn't know I had. The Studio is set up for emerging writers, which I suppose is what I am, and offers encouragement, community, structure, impetus. All good things. Also it is non-credit, which means it stays away from the whole business of marks, which I feel too old for. If I can't motivate myself, and if learning isn't yet for it's own sake, I don't know when it will ever be.
Anyway, the whole idea seems to revolve around becoming a better writer, learning new things -- the process, which seems the way to go. For me. So I am going to get up tomorrow and give some real thought to putting together an application package and sending it off. Then of course there's the whole thing of waiting to be accepted. From the number at the meeting, and from what they said, it may be quite a crap shoot. But what I also like is that the mentors are looking for writers they think they can work with. So it's not a first past the post thing, and no need to feel a failure if I don't get in. (Setting myself up for the just-in-case. Think of the money I'll save if I don't get in!)
Today I mailed a contest (nonfiction) entry to the Surrey International Writers' Contest.
Really do want to do this earlier in the day. Mmmm, bed.
Friday, September 19, 2003
Got home last night too late to put in an entry, so now I'll just shift my blogging time to the morning. I was at my book club last night -- the book was Unless by Carol Shields. This was an interesting book for a variety of reasons. I think Shields wrote it while she was dying, and may have been thinking it'd be the last one, though I believe she was working on another book when she died. (Rumour, conjecture--this being a personal journal and not journalism, I don't have to check any sources.) The story rambles a bit, the core story being the 19 year-old daughter who inexplicably decides to spend all her time on a street corner in downtown Toronto. I don't think I'm the only mother who has lived through her own children's adolescence who found this particularly compelling. But the story ultimately disappointed me, I think because the problem that sent the daughter in the story off the deep end turns out to be external to the family, and too pat, too fixable. Life isn't like that. I guess I was expecting that a "child who goes wrong" would have the roots of the problem in the family. But there you go, that would be another story. Shields also writes about a writer writing another novel, so the book has a bit of the effect of those photos of people looking into mirrors that show reflections of them looking into other mirrors, on and on. She takes a few digs at the publishing/editing business -- insider jokes I guess. And the book is pretty reflective about marriage, family and writing. Worth the read though, don't get me wrong.
Yesterday I went on a big shopping for food expedition. I read once (always, my information comes from something I once read) that you are doing okay as a parent if you can keep them fed, and get them out of the house on time. I took miniscule comfort from that, because I was always treading water just a bit. Three kids, fussy eaters, conflicting schedules, me on my own. My kids are 23, 20 and 18 now, so they have lasted longer than any of the pets I ever kept (come to think of it, even my pets live longer now) -- I must have managed to feed them enough. But I fell down a bit on the getting them out of the house on time. (That was true of myself as well though.) Right now I have the youngest and the oldest at home -- the middle daughter is living with their father. I joke about us having a one-daughter capacity on each house. There is friction there, but I think the friction is also between myself and the middle child. I could probably write a story about it, but that would cause a lot more friction, so maybe I won't.
Anyway, I've puzzled for a lot of years about just how you are supposed to be a parent. I look around me and see people who have it all figured out; at least that's what it looks like from outside their family groups. I do think though that there are people who by some lucky fluke were born themselves to parents who had some solid core of belief in how it's done, and passed it on unconsciously. Because I've come to think we parent unconsciously. I don't mean I wasn't thinking about what I was doing. I was, obsessively, reading everything I could get my hands on (I said that was a theme, didn't I) but that our unconscious sideswipes our conscious thought, and we act out of some other level. The cosmic joke in it all is that you come to understand this (I came to understand this) through the process of being mother to these children, but realized most clearly what I was doing, who I am, long after I'd unconsciously affected them with all my own anxieties, and face it, depression.
But this isn't meant to be a guilt-fest or anything. I started out talking about shopping for food, and what could be more motherhood-ish than that? The kids are growing up, but they aren't grown, they're still here aren't they? and if I could just feed them right... well, this is also related to my own efforts to get my own life in balance. How can I get my own life in order if I can't even get the basics happening? And then from this solid happy home the kids will launch themselves into self-supporting happy productive lives. Happy's the elusive, tricky thing. And with all this writing I'll have a life too, which it's easy to forget about, when you're cleaning out the fridge, and wanting everyone to have a balanced diet, balanced life.
Monday, September 22, 2003
I seem to have taken the weekend off.
I've had a few people ask why would anyone put up a personal log on the Web, and I may have been stopped by that. I'm very suggestible. Also easily distracted. I think this exercise is a mix of personal, professional and practical. The personal is the contact, even if it's all in my own mind :-) I imagine the friends and family I've told about this finding it interesting. Although I don't want to turn too many relationships into "you read my blog I'll read yours", and then we never see each other again. Personal contact is good. Professional reasons lie in the effort to become regular, consistent, and disciplined in my writing. Practically, this is a bit of self-publishing, to carry me over until I get around to finishing enough projects, and actually sending them out, and then having someone buy one and publish it...
Saturday morning was Plum morning, (Plums are what my writing group calls itself.) We do this every two weeks. Normally there are four of us, but Yvonne was off in Victoria having quality time with her husband. The other three of us worked on stuff we had already going. The writing I did was in the reflective category, which I seem to be doing a lot of these days. Navel gazing? Or just a sign that I'm in my early fifties, and at that stage of life where I can get on with what I want to do. It's another of those cosmic jokes that people who have put in a lot of time at one job or another, (and that's certainly what raising kids is, one job or another) get to a point where the work eases off, or they retire, and voila time looms ahead. If you can remember who you are. The pleasure of this age I'm at, is that there is time. And it's never too late to be what you were meant to be, to paraphrase George Eliot.
I don't know where the rest of Saturday went, except maybe down the tube. Cooking? Family. The Banger Sisters were on and I watched that in the evening. So funny.
Sunday mornings I go visit my dad. My step-sister and I have pretty much kept up the routine of having tea together on Sunday mornings, though there is no Roni (my step-mother) anymore to have tea with. Dad watches football, and we have passing conversations. It seems to work.
Sunday afternoon I was back in the yard. I tackled the mountain of junk that had accumulated under my back porch, and cleaned it out.This is ridiculously satisfying, to be able to see where things are, and to throw out stuff that is useless to me. I also cleared a bit more of the weeds, and start to have a vision of an easily maintainable garden that is pleasant to be in. Later I found two women, grandmother and granddaughter, standing in front of my house staring at it and we fell into conversation about the place. The granddaughter's other set of grandparents were the previous owners of my house, except for a year or two where someone else owned it and rented it out. They were responsible for the roses, and the trilliums, the hydrangea, and really most else except for the morning glory and buttercups. Can't really blame them for that. Good thing I've beaten back the weeds this year. They might have been horrified by the yard, though the house looks pretty good, with it's new roof. Needs painting though. It's always something.
Tuesday, September 23, 2003
11:30 am
Thought I'd start putting in the time, just for the historical record. The time of day I mean, not marking time, or that sort of idea.
I watched Monday Night Football last night with my son, and asked him to explain what was going on. I've stared blankly at enough football games to well, fill a stadium, and thought it just might help to understand the game. I might as well. Football is the only thing that seems to consistently interest my father, besides rugby. I had rugby explained to me last year, finally, by a guy on the sidelines of one of my son's games. He was an occasional ref, and a father of rugby-playing kids; I don't think he played anymore himself. There are other places for passion besides art and literature I discover. (I'm being ingenuous here. I've realized this for years -- since I watched guys tinkering with engines, and endlessly polishing cars, I've known that we are all moved by different things.) My father's passion is all as spectator, my son's is a mix, as he still plays rugby, but he'll watch any sport.
Anyway, remarkably enough I found the game a lot more interesting having first & ten, and second & three explained to me. As well, special teams, blitzes, kick-off, touch, and why the penalty flags keep being thrown. It's a slow game though -- rugby moves a lot faster. But hey, the next few Sundays may be easier to take.
So what gets me that way? Book are one. That must come as a surprise. I can walk into a bookstore, and just breathing the air is soothing. Not surprisingly my house has a lot of bookshelves in it, and a lot of books on them. Stationery stores are a strange treat -- like a toolshop for mechanics, or a lumberyard for carpenters. They are like toy stores.
I get a similar blast from fabric stores -- the smell of fabric, how it feels. But I don't do much sewing anymore, though there is still a pile of fabric in my house, bought with good intentions. I suppose it's like the books I've bought yet haven't set aside time yet to read. There are all these other things that press -- chores that are just part of life, but take a lot of its time. I realize my extraordinary luck right now not having to be a wage slave. So why do I accomplish so little? Maybe I'm looking at it from the wrong angle. Patience and perseverence, that's what I need to apply.
Wednesday, September 24, 2003
11:50 am
Today I've a memorial service to attend, have to leave in an hour. My across-the-street neighbour died a couple weeks ago, and today is the service. He was 82, a retired professor of social work. I remember when he was kicked out of his job for turning 65; he didn't want to go, and fought it, But seventeen years ago there was no shortage of younger people, so turfed out he was. Bill was the same age as my father, but his wife Jeanne is twenty years younger, which puts her closer to my generation. The two of them were a good advertisement for how age-discrepant marriages can work. Second marriages anyway -- Jeanne swears by second marriage. Their children all came from the first marriages. Bill had one child pre-decease him; I don't know the circumstances, but may find out today.
Bill and Jeanne were/are both artists. Bill wrote and painted, Jeanne is a musician. She taught one of my children to play piano. She could have taught all three, but I never had the ability to enforce my vision on my kids. The oldest played because she wanted to -- and the younger two did not. They'll probably blame me later when they realize they wish they had learned to play an instrument. But maybe not. I remember taking piano as a kid; I wonder whether an attendant parent nagging would have got me to practise. Never having had an attendant parent I really can't say. So there I was attending my children, but cluesless about how to get them to do stuff, or even what it is they ought to be doing. I was clear on a few things: don't steal, lying generally is bad, whitelies are in the morally fuzzy area, be kind to others, share, eat your vegies, don't whine. Hmmm, maybe I wasn't that clear.
It's possible to live across the street from people and have very little to do with them. I don't know whether I'd have had the contact I've had with Bill and Jeanne if it weren't for the piano connection. Other neighbours don't know them at all, but they've been in that house since before I moved in 20 years ago. I believe they had 25 years together.
Bill was a good guy, kind and gentle is how he seemed to me; extremely supportive of Jeanne and her music. The two of them travelled frequently -- last year they were gone for most of the year. There have been numerous sublets over the years as they traipsed the globe. Jeanne will miss him, understatement -- one of the main things wrong with this wide an age difference is how many years you can expect to be left behind, on your own. It's sad.
Thursday, September 25, 2003
5:50 pm
My mother died fifteen years ago of colon cancer, and so became a family history. Today I had a screening test, a colonoscopy, which in my case is like a mammogram that screens for breast cancer. Except that it takes a bit more preparation of the sort you maybe don't want too many details about. The test itself is painless thanks to some pretty good drugs, but makes the rest of the day kind of woozy. I've just woken up from a nice long nap in which I was getting all kinds of chores done, only to realize they were all in my dreams. Ah well. I think tonight I'll take it easy and tomorrow try and get industrious again. Never fear, the inner coast is clear
Friday, September 26, 2003
11:35 pm
My oldest and my youngest have hit the road today in my car. They are off to Calgary together where my son will hang out with friends at the U of C and my daughter will head up to Bowden Institution to visit her boyfriend. Then she goes up to Edmonton to visit other friends and returns via Calgary to pick up her brother and then they both come home. So I have a long weekend stretching out in front of me. My middle daughter is also heading over to Victoria (from her home with the dad), so for a couple of days the city will hold none of my children. A new sensation.
A whole weekend to fill. The sun shines. I still have wheels; my daughter left me her car. The house is a mess, but does anyone but me care? No. Do I care? Yes. So I think I'll have a tedious but necessary day today cleaning it up, and perhaps take myself out for dinner. That way I won't generate any new mess in the kitchen.
I've decided not to apply to the Writer's Studio at SFU. I don't feel able to commit to it just yet. I feel that my life is somewhat in flux, and I'm not sure quite what state I'll be in over the next year. I do want to find some kind of job that causes money to flow into my bank; I've spent the last three years since I left my last job with a net drain on my finances, and I need to turn it around, so that I can have a comfortable old age. Never used to worry about that. The Writer's Studio is expensive, and I'd like to plan ahead for it. I of course think that once I decide to apply they will accept me.
I remember my mother having not enough money, selling bits and pieces out of her house to make ends meet, and she didn't even live long enough to collect an old age pension. As far as longevity goes I have every intention of mimmicking the other side of the family. It gives me such a big space to work out the rest of life. So I think I'll start this weekend, by cleaning my home. Mundane, but much of life is. Also satisfying, as the comfort of home is so critical. The condition of my house has always seemed a very clear metaphor for how I'm doing, and when it crumbles I am crumbling. I've got the facade, the outside, pretty well cleaned up, so now to the mops and brooms.
Sunday, September 28, 2003
5:30 pm
It's been very quiet around here with only me and three cats; my roomies get home late tomorrow. The cats are occasionally noisy, but it's a different sort of racket. The fur flies, and then all is quiet again, though it's true the fat cat coming down the stairs sounds loud enough to be a person. I have been knocking back some of the mess; the housekeeping stuff never goes away, so it's satisfying only in a small way, but at least I won't be embarrassed if anyone drops by. Funny about that, but home does reflect on us. Anyway, it is nicer in here when it's clean.
I went for my weekly installment of football this morning; my son's short lesson last week is going to save me. I can actually watch the game now and not go nuts. I admit to not understanding how people (my dad) can watch game after game and not go stir crazy, but I should be okay for a while each Sunday. One game looked to get exciting near the end, the Sabres were pressing, but a touchdown put the Fliers out of reach, only two minutes left, so I took my leave. Two minutes in a football game can stretch into half an hour very easily. The clock runs while the ball is in play, but some plays take about three seconds. Stop start. You don't want to be in a hurry. I suppose I'll check on the news tonight to see how many more touchdowns were stuffed into that two minutes.
I went down to the Word on the Street Festival next, at the public library, for an antidote to watching burly linesmen crush not as burly running backs (see, I'm getting the lingo). I was looking for a writing and publishing panel of editors on what they like to see in query letters. This turned out to be a good idea, as I was encouraged by their statements that they are always looking for good writers, just sell them with your letter. I, like every other writer in her/his heart of hearts, believe that I am one of the good ones, so if I can just step around the huge weird personality block that stops me from getting down to it, I could be one of the published ones. Anyway, I will give this matter some thought. It sounds like more fun to try and get paid to write than getting paid to shuffle papers in some office. I'll shuffle papers in my own more happily. And I have said this was what I'm going to try to do, so perhaps it's time I got on with it. I ran into Yvonne, coincidentally hanging out at the same discussion, so we prowled some of the tables outside for a while before parting ways.
I've got a flyer to turn out tonight. I managed to repress memory of it up till now, but realize I won't be able to do it tomorrow morning, as I have an Excel class to go to. This falls in the category of improving my skills. I will still apply for jobs that look like I could do them, and Excel seems to be one of the programs everyone wants. I only know it in the most rudimentary way, so will go and hone up on it tomorrow. So, the sun is drifting down, and I will be sitting here mucking around in Pagemaker for the next couple of hours at least.
Tuesday, September 30, 2003
12:30 pm
Today's ramble:
Yesterday I went to school for a day -- I signed up for an Excel class because it's one program that seems to be in every job dexcription I read, and one that I don't know. I've mucked around in Excel, but there are a few things I've never figured out how to do, and now I have some of them explained. More on Wednesday. This expedition out for a 9 am to 4 pm day is a useful reminder of the workday world. The day went quickly enough, but what I find is that a day spent in front of a computer leaves me physically wrecked. My body is obviously not happy with sitting in one spot for hours. It made it impossible for me to sit down and turn on my machine at home, to do more of the same. Thus the gap since Sunday. The thought has occurred to me that I should turn my computer on first thing in the morning and add an entry to this log, but I am at my most undisciplined first thing in the morning. Maybe that's even more reason why I should do this thing. We'll see if I can hold the thought until tomorrow morning. Because the same thing will happen tomorrow, after a day in front of a computer at the school board offices (where the class is held). It's a nice building though; it would be a pleasant place to work.
Work. It's funny how our world assigns value to humans in terms of the work they do. I have not spent much of my adult life 'working'. That is, I haven't collected a paycheque for very long periods of time. I joke about my fifteen year maternity leave, which ended about eight years ago when I entered a five-year stint again collecting a paycheque. In the last three years I've been "self-employed", a euphemism I use for spending more than I earn. I make a little bit of money through desktop publishing contracts. I am a lousy entrepreneur however, being troubled by the problem of deciding what the work I do is worth. The jobs I get fall in my lap, I don't seek them out. Maybe this is because my heart's not really in the jobs.
My heart was in (is in) raising kids. But I have trouble assessing the 'worth' of that job. All the years I was at home 'only' being a mom, I was considered unemployed. No worth (although a case might be made that the child support I received was an indicator of the worth of the job - It wasn't worth much). While I was still married, I was considered a dependent of my husband, although I would suggest that he also depended on me, to feed his kids if nothing else.
Was it worth it? Duh, yes. Three children, young adults now. They are precious beyond words for me. Invaluable, which is not the same thing as worthless. Not that they have proved their worth yet, in the making money, self-supporting sense of worth. Their worth is intrinsic. So must mine be. We need some other words for this, some other way of valuing people beyond the dollar value of their income.
My heart is also in writing, but is it worth anything? I read a John Grisham novel this summer, The Summons, which I would say was a worthless piece of work, but I expect he made a lot of money from it. My writing is worth something to me, though it has brought in no money. Is it therefore worthless? It's certainly worth less than Grisham's, at this point anyway. Give me time, and perhaps I'll figure out a balance, so my writing becomes worth something in both senses.
I watched a program the other night on A&E, on the Forbes 400, the richest people in America. The people on this list have staggering amounts of money, and some of them even seemed to be worthwhile people. Some not. They have so much money, it loses meaning. If you are worth less than them are you worthless?
I am thinking of finding a job that provides me with enough. What do I mean by enough? Enough money that I don't fret about being able to pay my bills. Enough money that I can occasionally travel. But I also I mean enough time, to keep on living my life, figuring out what is essential to me, and discarding the flotsam. Some of this is physical, digging out under my porch and getting the rubble hauled away is part of that. This house will one day be more than enough, and I hope I have the sense then to let it go. But for now, enough to live on, and to be able to shelter my kids until they get the self-supporting, work, worth thing worked out. Could be a while before I let the house go.
© copyright Shirley Rudolph 2003-2009, all rights reserved
