Leaving Los Larvae

I kept chanting it in my head. "They're just cute little baby flies. That's all. All babies are cute. Cute little baby flies."
This is what one does on Day Three of Planet Unemployment. They become responsible homeowners and realize, to their abhorrence and dismay, there are MAGGOTS in their outdoor garbage can.
Oh help me Jesus. They were there.
What does one do? One buys gallons of bleach and eradicates said baby flies.
I drive little these days. Gasoline is too expensive. And my bike is broken. Instead, I walk. Or go nowhere. For a person use to living in their vehicle, I've suddenly, and quite surprisingly, discovered I own a home. At least for now.
Being an adult, yet being single, is a nifty little demographic status that keeps us quite comfortably in the adolescent stages of life. We work. We pay our bills. But dang it, we aren't home enough to spend that much time wondering if we should repaper the front closet.
Buying a home does not mean I've suddenly become a full-fledged adult. No sir. I bought it because it was pretty.
Anyway, I'm learning that upkeep is just one of those things, like repainting your toenails. Just hunker down and do it. Too much spare time and I'm beginning to see this place through all new eyes. I mean, dang it. I actually thought about repapering the front closet.
So here I am with a problem. Lots of little bitty problems actually. And let's just preface this by saying, Tara has a weak stomach. I know. I'm a bloody reporter. I know this. I've seen a lot of nastiness in my day. I know this too. I've been in meth houses where the oxygen was no longer human friendly, homicide scenes you can't quite scrub from your memory, and accidents that ended your innocence. But you tell my stomach not to get queasy. Maybe it will listen to you.
I breathed in and out a few times, kept chanting my mantra "they're just baby flies," grabbed my gumption, and went outside. Armed with my funky green and hot pink garden gloves, garden hose, and the ability to hold my breath for three to seven minutes, I attacked this monster. And once the kill was complete, once I had ended this tribe of larvae, I removed all evidence of a crime and vacated the scene.
You could say this is just unemployment. But let me tell you, this is no minor leaguer time wasting. This kind of uselessness is only for the brave hearted, low pain tolerant, and minds of solid steel. This is kill or be killed nothingness. This, my friends, is life in the no lane.
Tomorrow? I'm pulling weeds. Watch out world!

they claim to be

Here, fill this out. Oh, and this. Now, fill this out. And when you are done, come back to my desk and we'll fill everything out.
Welcome to the reason most of the unemployed in America find themselves on the shoulder of a bridge, weighing whether to file a claim for unemployment or jump off.
It wasn't all bad. There wasn't a bad smell to the place or hateful workers. In fact, the woman helping me was very friendly and looked exceptional in turquoise. And a man filing for some kind of retirement benefits walked in wearing an unnamed cologne that increased my body temperature.
It's just the sheer madness of it, really. The belief you'll fill out all these blanks, answer all these questions, and the perfect job will seek you out like the wet nose of a puppy in your open hand. I'm not saying it doesn't happen. I'm just saying I'm doubtful. Okay, I'm still an unbeliever. I just don't believe a resume tells you diddly about me. In fact, I know it doesn't.
This is like filing out a dating application and believing chemistry will strike when you read the candidates middle name. "Henry. Yes. That's him. I knew I'd marry a man with the middle initial H."
Perhaps I should have been better behaved. Perhaps I should take it all more seriously. Perhaps I just don't fit well inside a box. The squeeze is just too tight. It reminds me of a double-breasted vest I own that forces my figure out, instead of holding it in, because the space allowed wasn't designed for my unique form.
That's a resume. I just can't fit inside of it.
It was around the second set of yes or no questions when the electrolytes in my brain began slamming themselves into my skull in a vain attempt at suicide.
Can you "provide information to supervisors, co-workers, and subordinates by telephone, in written form, e-mail, or in person?" Interesting. So you're asking me if I know how to use a phone, a piece of paper, a computer, and my mouth? Sure. Think so. Next.
Can you "see details at close range (within a few feet of the observer)?" And the English translation of that question is: Do your eyes and brain work together? Why yes, yes they do. Next.
Can you "understand information and ideas presented in writing?" Survey says: Yes, I can read.
Can you "understand information and ideas presented through spoken words and sentences?" Translation: They want to know if I'm deaf. No, but I do walk around the office with headphones shoved in my ears playing anything from the 80's heavy-metal era. Hope that's not a problem. Next.
Can you "write synopsis?" Yes. Much better than you. Next.
Can you "arrange things or actions in a certain order or pattern according to a specific rule or set of rules?" Absolutely. I know how to count all the way to 75. And I learned the alphabet song last year. I'm a go.
My apologies, most sincere, to all those who made it through various forms of these questions and did not snap in the end. I, however, am not one of you. By the time I got to the section to write my objectives, which in normal speech means to sell yourself, I wrote this:
"Tireless experience in writing. I can produce it myself, produce it from others, edit it, juggle it, grill it, organize it, tweak it, squeeze it, plump it, stump it, brighten it, thin it, excite it, invite it, take it, leave it, bring it, brought it, toss it, enlighten it, sizzle and flambé it.
And that's just the writing part.
My communication skills are excellent. No, better than that. Superfantastic.
I work well with others and play nice. I'm energetic and love a challenge. LOVE it.
But you can't know me or know what I can do by reading a resume. Not possible. I'm three-dimensional - in body, mind, skills, personality, goals, and shoe size. A resume is not."
I signed off, signed out, and hit the road. If a prospective employer wants to know who I am, just ask. And I promise to answer in English.

Day ONE on Planet Unemployment

This is a strange little place. There are no alarm clocks here. No expectations. No one expects anyone to be anywhere at any time. And pressed clothes are optional.
Eating occurs whenever and often. Silence is profound. And the phone rings, but they are all personal calls.
There are no meetings, no desks. Work is done by sitting on the floor and using your lap as a table. Naps can happen spontaneously. And NOTHING absolutely must be done by the end of the day.
Unemployment. I've never visited this strange and unusual place before. I've seen brochures, but never had the courage to check it out. Now I'm here but not of my own doing. My boss, or what was once called such, sent me here on Friday afternoon due to budget cuts. I packed light.
You can always take more. But I didn't. I took my books and my paperweights and walked into the sunshine, leaving the deadlines, the disappointments, the daily schedule behind. I haven't missed them yet. But then again, it is only my first day.
I left without a tear. And they haven't really come since, not enough to pool, not enough to really bring me sadness, not enough to even earn mentioning.
Instead, I left, wondering if it was too late in the day to enjoy the park. I walked for over two hours, heading north along the River, not sure if I'd stop until it got dark, not knowing if I'd stop once it did. I just needed time to think, to speak with God, and hear Him speak back. You see, this is my answer. This trip. This adventure. It's exactly what I asked for. I wrote it on my Christmas list. I asked during a falling star. I blew out birthday candles, and it wasn't even my birthday. I've been wanting an adventure. Not just any adventure. I wanted one with God. Me and Him. Some me and He time. I asked him to knock me off my feet and take me on a journey. And our first stop, our first destination, it's Planet Unemployment.
What does this mean?
I don't know. It isn't important that I do. I'm just going along for the ride, anxious to see the scenery while not particularly concerned about the destination. The way I see it, God is moving in my life. And He's given me a first-class ticket. Now I'm going to spend my time exhaling, asking for a fruity drinks with umbrellas in them, and taking in all the sights. I can't wait to buy some souvenirs.

The knowingness of nothing

I didn't get it. I really didn't. I mean it hurt. It really hurt. And I'm no baby, my friend. I can take pain. Ever have your grandmother set you up on a blind date? No? I have. That's blunt trauma, and I'm a survivor.
But this pain, this was different. It was perpetual, enigmatic, and enjoyed traveling about my body, hitching a ride here, taking a drive there, seeing the sights, snapping pictures. A total tourist pain, completely not at home inside me.
After a few weeks I started getting irritable. After a few months I started getting depressed.
I had thrown my back out. Yep, I did. Here's the warning that should be placed on all clandestine boxes, "Picking up and carrying on one's hip could cause disk misplacement and months of whining that even your mother won't want to hear. Check with your physician before lifting any and all boxes."
My chiropractor and I got very close. Although I'll admit, not meaning to be unfaithful, I had a love affair with the roller bed.
You'd think I could have a good sense of humor about such things. And I did. For a solid 20 minutes, I laughed this pain off. Then I started getting testy. And more so, scared.
What I didn't understand, what confounded me time and time again, was the fact God was simply not answering my prayer. No divine communicado. What good could possible come of this? Of all the things in my life swirling down the toilet, was this REALLY what I needed right now?
I could answer that. No. No, it was not. What I needed was to miraculously and spontaneously lose 12 percent more body fat, get a rebate check from my credit card for $15,000, open my front door to find a Cary Grant look-a-like lost and lonely.
This made no sense. None. And I was sick of it.
I HAD been in some of the best shape of my adult life. I had been pushing myself, working out hard, lifting weights, building my strength, pushing myself beyond what I thought possible. It felt good. Too good. So I kept at it. And at it. And at it. My usually three day/one-hour workout turned into six day/two-hour workout. And I wanted more. It made me feel powerful, in control, like I was the one piloting this life. The constant soreness was just weakness leaving my body (who ever made that stupid statement anyway?). And my constant exhaustion was simply lack of sleep. Nothing more. So I kept right on pushing.
Then, on a day I can only remember as rainy, it all stopped. Just like that. No more sweat. No more weights. No more control. I was injured and it wasn't healing.
So time went on. I slept with a pillow between my knees. I went to my chiropractor. I did my stretches. I waited and watched and held my breath hoping for improvement. Then I passed out because you should never hold your breath that long. Eventually, ever so tediously slow, the pain began to subside, I walked normally, I moved freely, and I still slept with a pillow between my knees.
I gave up understanding. God wasn't going to explain this. It was going down in my history book as one of those great question marks I'm suppose to remember post death to ask, though I know I won't. It had been completely pointless. Just bad luck. Just bad karma. Just life.
Months later, sitting in my doctor's office (it hasn't been a steller year), we reviewed the results of some tests I'd taken. I had some problems but nothing that couldn't be reversed with more sleep, supplements, and a whole-foods diet. Thankfully. However, BIG however, I was on the edge, just tittering on the brink of plunging further beyond the line of easy reversal. I was at that point someone named No Return.
And then my doctor said something rather profound, "Good thing your back went out."
Huh? Good thing? It's not like it just "went out" for dinner, "went out" for a smoke, "went out" with Cindy my hairstylist, it w-e-n-t o-u-t, as in, not in. "What do you mean?" I asked.
"Well, had you continued pushing yourself like you were, you'd be in a much worse situation than you are now. It's really a blessing you were forced to quit. Otherwise, you'd be pretty sick right now."
Oh, I thought. 'Oh,' I formed with my mouth. "Oh," I finally said out loud.
Who'd uh thunk it. The pain had a purpose afterall.
I sat across from my mother recently while she received some bad news. After months and months of praying, after disappointment upon disappointment, here she was to be disappointed again. I could see it on her face. Why? She was asking. And I couldn't help but think of my pain.
"Mom, we don't always know the reason for these trials. That doesn't mean there isn't one. We have to trust God knows what He's doing. We just have to trust...God."
I'm still doing my stretches, still seeing my chiropractor. The pain is minimal, though not gone. And there's just enough of a reminder to keep me from picking up any boxes. I don't understand everything in my life. In fact, I have a hard time understanding my cell bill. The mysteries of the world are certainly not frightened of me.
But perhaps that's the adventure. That's the thrill. The not knowing. That's part of what makes life so confounding, intriguing, irrational, yet fascinating. We don't know. We can't. But we've been invited to know Someone who does.

What does it all bloody mean?

Can the seemingly meaningless dumb luck of life have greater meaning?

Could losing $20 propel you into financial freedom?
Could stubbing your toe cause true love?
Could getting cut off in traffic actually save your hide?
Could that missing sock eventually explain the meaning of life?

In the far reaches of unexplained phenomenon, could one innocuous event, or even not so tame event, eventually lead you to a destiny? Or at least a really groovy time?

Hmmmm.....
Let's think about this a bit. More later.

Love is blind

I stood in the back lurking. Deep in the shadows I watched, like a stalker, like a thief in the night, like a serpent hunting. The darkness thickened near the corners so I backed up, edging closer and closer to obscurity. I shifted my weight from foot to foot, not quickly, but slow, a timeless rhythm tossing the wind back and forth between movements. I stayed inside my personal space, shrinking to nothing. Unseen. Unnoticed. Unknown.
The only light, the only sound, came from a stage in the distance. The eyes of cameras watching every movement, much like me. It was just a show, a simple national platform, and a friend of mine sat there among the cables and wires, the backdrops and backlights, being in the cornea of the spotlight.
He's a special man. A success by any standard. A national columnist. An award-winning author. An international speaker. A dreamer who knows the smell of battle to keep the dream alive.
At age 17 he started going blind. At age 29 the process was complete.
The bubbly interviewer smiled through her raspy voice, an extravagant personality beneath big hair and a small frame. She spoke on his books, his movie, his television network.
Still, I remained in the dark. He didn't even know I was there, a spy among strangers. I thought I came to support him. I learned later it was all for me.
She began wrapping up the interview and asked one final question.
"Jim, does being blind limit you?"
He answered, in the sure-footed way he always speaks, comfortable whether at Tiamo's talking about my life or sitting in a ghastly lit chair in front of a live feed talking about his.
"Yes, of course," he said. "It limits what I can do."
And here's the pearl I haven't been able to get out of my head all day.
"But it never limits who I am," he said.
I stopped shifting my weight, stopped my nervous twitch of shifting my weight, stopped feeling the cushions in my shoes squish with my body weight. I stopped lurking in the dark and just stood there plainly. I stopped seeing the chaos behind the scenes and started seeing the chaos behind my eyes. I just stopped.
There in the cool darkness I realized I was the one blind. I cannot see where I'm going, only sometimes where I've been. My eyes haven't adjusted to the darkness. My other senses haven't heightened.
I'm blind. My life makes little sense, the directions even less. I turn north and find out I've gone east. I've make a right to realize I should have made two lefts. And I step out to realize I should have used the other foot.
So many times, I live life blindly still believing I've got perfect sight. But I don't. I'm blind. Completely and totally in the dark. Decisions are limited. I don't have the ability to push my future forward or back, to curve my direction to the left or right. It does not, however, change who I am in Christ.
I'm still His daughter, His beloved, the twinkle in His eye. I'm constantly in His sight, the object of His affection. I'm still His and everything He made me to be. And I don't need my eyes to see it.

what do you WANT?

If a friend asks me that question, I usually answer, "understanding."
If a boss asks me that question, I usually answer, "money."
If a man asks me that question, I usually answer, "dinner."
If God asks me that question, I usually answer in stunned silence. What do we want? What do we REALLY, truly, from the blood and guts of it, want?

Don't answer that. Let it marinate awhile. Your response might surprise you.