I seem to have replaced my old bedtime routine (falling
asleep watching Friends) with a new involuntary
practice of rethinking every single thought, word, decision, and action that
comprised my day.
Every. Single. One.
Kind of makes me long for six whiny, self-absorbed, 20-something
New Yorkers in my ear instead.
As of yet, it hasn’t caused me to lose much sleep. The
physical exhaustion which has resulted from all of my running overcomes my brains
attempts at restless anxiety or insomnia. But in the silence, stillness (which is still absent from my
day because I putter and fidget a lot), and complete darkness of my bedroom
there is nothing to distract from the musings of my mind. They’re not necessarily
profound thoughts, but they are plentiful, disorganized, and, on occasion,
alarming. They swirl around in my head so that they almost make me feel physically
dizzy and then right as I think I’m going to puke or have a panic attack, I manage
to hone in on one specific memory from the day and then I drift off to sleep
pondering it. This whole process takes mere minutes, though it feels longer and
can be intense. And when I wake up the following morning, I can’t remember what
ended up in focus.
Until this morning.
Full disclosure: I wanted
to remember it this morning because coupled with whatever thought it was
that calmed last evening’s brainstorm, was an urgent need to write about it.
That was a very inconvenient time to have that particular need. There was no
notebook and pencil by my bed…no recording device…and a realization that if I got
out of bed to retrieve either item, I
might be forced to endure another swirling thought vortex. Instead I chose to
stay put and hope that I could
remember the next day. And with some effort I did.
This was the thought…
I have no tangible, saleable skills…no training in a trade
or specific profession…that are of value in the American job market.
Ok...so..sweet dreams.
I have talents. I have a bachelor’s degree. I have job
experience that is 1 inch deep and 1 mile wide through which I developed my abilities
to work independently and in groups,
to speak in public, to write persuasively, and to listen fastidiously. I have also
cultivated some clerical skills that have served me well in volunteer positions
and make me appear extremely capable and organized. On a higher level, I have
learned the value of listening to a variety of viewpoints and considering their
merits before establishing my own position…of identifying who the key players
are in a given situation and bringing them to the table when something needs to
get done…of placing myself in the right place at the right time to achieve an organizational
or personal goal.
Basically, I am a master of bullshit. And there is no
category for it on my resume.
I should have gone to law school. Or learned how to build
furniture. Both of these are occupations that I considered at one time
or another. I also wanted to be a professional camp counselor – I have
some mad small group leadership skills.
So now I’m 42 with a communications degree and resume that
is about 16 years old. And I keep reading these articles about the value of a
liberal arts education and how we shouldn’t forsake these age-old disciplines
in our pursuit of STEM education. But
lately I’m just not feeling it and I suspect employers aren't either.
If only I knew how to code…or be an accountant…or design
eco-friendly housing developments. Now those are some valuable skills.
And then I go back to the word value. Just looking at the dictionary
definitions (that’s plural) hints at the complexity of discerning what and who
has value and how we assign it as a culture.
It is a noun and verb and for me
it is LOADED with baggage.
1. I can have
values -- my ethical code or moral compass.
2. I can deem something of value – a colleague’s support or a saleable item.
3. I can estimate
a thing’s value – appraise its monetary cost or worth as currency on its own.
4. I can value
– an action word – any number of things, ideas, or people. I value friendship, independence,
family, good health…the list goes on and on.
I can also value myself – we call
that self-esteem.
The tension among these
definitions is great and I am thankful that they weren’t part of the equation
as I focused in on my lack of valuable
skills last night. I’m pretty sure I’d still be awake.
For myself, I am confident in my
values – in my ethical code and in the integrity with which I live it. I also
endeavor to be respectful of other’s moral stances even when they differ from
my own. These are both things at which I am not perfect but aim to improve upon
each day.
I make value judgements with
respect to people and things every day. That person is a hard worker…that
dishwasher is worthless…my view of this morning’s sunset was priceless.
I value good conversation with
dear friends over wine and food. I value the opportunity to train for a
marathon. I value the existence of music and art and scientific discovery and
historical reflection and self-examination and I really value the existence of words to express it all. This expression
is what generates ideas, resolves conflict, and brings order to chaos. I value all
of this so much that I ache when the world – myself included – doesn’t always recognize
the significance of these things. That they are often deemed worthless in terms
of economic value.
How do we live in a world that is,
by human design, determined to place a value on everything about us (our bodily
usefulness, our intellect, our skills and talents, our possessions) and not
transfer that label of worthiness (a price tag) to who we are as people?
How do we reserve the essence of
our being – our humanity – but still find some satisfaction in a vocational
calling or simply a job that pays the bills (hopefully)?
In short, how can my mastery at the
art and science of BS earn me a steady paycheck?
Questions like this are the reason
I write and the reason that this TV-less existence is both illuminating and
terrifying. There is a metaphorical abyss in which all of my most profound contemplations
as well as my most self-absorbed preoccupations reside. Through the center
there runs a ridge at the top of which is a narrow footpath. I’m just trying to
walk a straight line between the two as the contents of both sides creep upward,
threaten to knock me off my feet, and wash me into one chasm or the other. I
think the distraction of television can acted as an antacid of sorts…regulating
the acidic bubbles that give buoyancy to all the thoughts that inhabit my
brain.
I’m going to need to find
something else to replace the inanity of House
Hunters or the mindless sequence of a procedural drama. I’m really looking
for something on the healthy end of the spectrum (think running and praying…not
drugs and alcohol) to calm the waters. Otherwise I’m going to end up with
insomnia.
Maybe I’ll just stick with the
writing. Is there are a job market for writers who also happen to have a masters "degree" in BS? If there is, please send word.
In the meantime, I will try follow Einstein's advice:
Until I figure out how to do both.
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