Hopeful On This Soggy Sunday

I've decorated my house just a little bit for Christmas. I have a skinny, scrawny fake bush of a tree that I bought last year in the week after Christmas -- $10 at Marshalls. It's too flimsy for ornaments, so I've hung a few of my favorites all around elsewhere in my livingroom. A lord aleaping, a feathered peacock, a silver star that says "hope."

I hold on to that notion. Hope. We hadn't felt that in a long time until Obama came on the scene, and feeling oh-so hopeful, we carried him on our shoulders to the White House, hoping, hoping, hoping that he could fix our broken country. He's trying. Trying to make hope more important than greed. Trying to make America what it was originally meant to be -- by the people, for the people. But greed is a powerful thing, apparently. Big business, big insurance, big guns. For some, it's a big disappointment, but I still feel the hope that brought Obama to Washington and I still think he'll make a difference, if only the greedy politicians will let him. Yes, we can.

My silver star of hope came from a friend who was battling colon cancer. She held onto hope as she suffered the affects of chemo and endured the hours, days, months of diminishing strength. She hoped it would all work -- we all hoped for that -- and it did. She's cancer-free now and stronger than ever. She's vibrant and grateful and oh-so alive. She's kind and gentle and loving. I doubt she's much familiar with greed, as she's a person who lives simply, struggling at times to make ends meet, as many of us do. She knows more of hope. Hope that her children and grandchildren can live in a world without greed? Hope that they will know the joy of life that she's found in her battle to hold onto it. She's a star, in my book. She's in that silver star that hangs from my diningroom lamp.

In the Christian tradition, there's hope in the star in the East. It shone over the desert to mark the place where Christ was born, and the shepherds and travelers followed that light, filled with hope. Filled with possibility. Good tidings of great joy.

Now to the Lord sing praises,
All you within this place,
And with true love and brotherhood
Each other now embrace;
This holy tide of Christmas
All others doth deface

Oh tidings of comfort and joy. Find them where you may and hold on to the hope that is there -- if only you look hard enough.

Preparing My Thanks

Thanksgiving eve. It's muddy outside. I wonder if the Pilgrims had to deal with mud on their fancy buckled shoes. And, did they really eat outside with the Indians? If it was anything like today, they were all freezing, especially the Europeans, who wore those capri-like pants and fluffy shirts. How warm could that have been?

Since I don't much cook, I've been assigned to bring a pie for Thanksgiving dinner. It'll be a big hit, I'm sure, since I ordered it from a proven pie place; First Slice. Pumpkin cheesecake sort of thing.

I am thankful, but had to force myself to think a little about it. I've got an incredible circle of friends and family, two relatively healthy parents who are still married to each other and enjoying each other, seven super siblings, numerous nieces and nephews (none in jail or on the lamb),a sweet and loving partner, a roof over my head, a sweet dog, a nice stereo and a collection of great music, and enough smarts to know that I WILL get a good job soon and my life will continue to be just swell.

So, thank you -- whoever it is that's at the helm here and whatever power or force is making the world turn, the waters flow and the sun shine. Thank you for all that I am and all that I am yet to be.

Thank you.

The Kindness of Strangers

The light is going out on this foggy, damp day and as we move into the evening, I wonder what I've accomplished in yet another unscripted day.

I applied for several jobs online, always a time-consuming and mostly empty episode. There's rarely any response from the employer and never a named person to whom I could be in contact down the line. No, it's just like tossing crumbs off the back of a ferry. Who knows where it goes, and none of those seagulls flying close behind even bother to say thanks.

There was a trip to Midway Airport this afternoon to pick up a friend's mother who's coming in to town for Thanksgiving. I parked and went into the terminal, arriving about 25 minutes early -- plenty of time to just watch the people, some saying good-bye, some offering warm greetings upon the arrival of a loved one.

There was an older couple standing nearby, obviously waiting for someone to appear down the long hallway from which all incoming passengers must exit. He was a smiley man with wisps of white hair across his forehead, stooped over with an aging, curved spine, dressed in tan slacks and a white sweater. She was more snappy in her appearance, dark hair, modern, chic clothes and a cell phone close at hand.

At first I wondered why such an elderly couple would make the trip to the terminal rather than meet their incoming person out at the car, and I wondered if they had much to say to each other.

My thoughts were interrupted as I locked in on a young man in sweat pants and a stocking cap leaning against the wall, also watching that long hallway for an arrival. Maybe he's meeting a girlfriend, I thought. Maybe she likes those tattoos.

When I turned my attentions back to the couple, they were talking to each other and laughing. She reached up and patted down the hair at the back of his neck.

"It's just there," she said to him. "Just have them cut it there."

He said something in response and she laughed again.

"The Hair Cuttery, I tell you. It's cheap and easy," she said.

Off to my left, a little boy ran into the arms of the man in sweats. The man didn't make much fuss over the boy, but the child held him tightly around the neck. The young woman pushing a stroller with another child in it spoke to the man, but the two didn't touch, or smile or act at all happy to see each other.

The older couple, in the meantime, stood arm-in-arm, still waiting. I left them that way as I met my friend's mother and took her to claim her bags.

Bottom line? Kindness actually works in relationships, and I don't imagine it's all that hard.

The Non-Interview

There's a falling theme to this blog so far. Is it inspired by the parachute -- invisible or not? Is it the ginko leaf -- my new favorite fallen leaf? Is it just that it's autumn and I'm in that season of transition and change and going within to await the new?

I'm not sure. It's just a recurrence of the fall, falling, fell. Fall, winter, spring, summer. Felt. Fault. Failed. Enough with the f-words, already.

I went downtown for a job interview today. It's a part-time job and I got the interview mostly because my sister is part of the organization I've applied with. That's okay. Whatever it takes to get an interview, then I'm responsible for the rest. Well, the rest wasn't ideal today. Before we had much discussion about my qualifications at all, my interviewer said that she didn't really know what the job would require exactly. She asked that I talk with the woman who held it previously and see if I think it's something I know.

After spending the last 48 hours working up to a job interview -- "Tell me about yourself," and "What makes you the person for this job?" -- I didn't really get interviewed. The executive director told me what she's aiming for in a web site, and said she's not sure what would be required of me if I were to take the position of Project Manager.

OK. I'll find out what's required by talking with the woman who did the job most recently --- until she took a full-time job elsewhere. And I'll examine whether I'm a good match for the job -- then maybe I'll get to interview and tell the hiring manager why I would be the perfect person for the spot. Or am I? It's all so unknown.

I'm looking for work, so I've created this persona that thinks I can do whatever I get hired to do -- within reason. I haven't applied for any neurosurgeon jobs or anything like that. And, on certain levels, I believe that's true. At the same time, I don't want to get in over my head.

In all, it's the very process of trying to find a good match that's most interesting, I guess. A friend said that interviewing for a job is like a date -- either there's a match or there's not.

We'll see.

Free Fall in Autumn

I've submitted the necessary paperwork with two companies which have accepted me as a freelancer.

Freelancer. The "free" is great, but I'm not too sold on the "lancer" part. It sounds surgical and stirs up images of blisters, boils and carbuncles.

Still, it looks like I may become a freelancer before I become an employee, so I'm trying to get used to the idea as I anxiously await my first assignment.

But, boils and blisters aside, it's a beautiful autumn day in Chicago. The sun is shining and the leaves are brilliant yellow, red and orange. While it forewarns of what's to come -- the gray skies and freezing temperatures of Chicago's winter -- fall is my favorite season and the weather seems particularly significant to me these days.

It's about the cycle of life, the four seasons, the birth/death/rebirth of all organic things. I sense a connection to my current job search, my career transition, my place in the certainty of the uncertain.

There's no denying winter when it blows in and pounds at your door. We know it'll bring ice and snow and higher heating bills. We know, too, that it will end at some point, turning into spring and spring to summer. But while we know all that about the experienc, we don't know what else the seasons will bring -- health and/or prosperity? Tragedy and/or joy. We can't know that. Just as I can't know what this job search will bring.

I feel myself shedding some of the old absolutes of my life, just as a tree drops its leaves and prepares for new life. For decades, I went to work each day and did what was required of me -- sometimes more -- and every two weeks, I got a paycheck.
That's not the life of a freelancer. I'll never really know when the work will come, and with it, the financial compensation. I'll be operating in that uncertainty, while waiting for new life ... new security.

Still, I love the autumn. It opens my eyes and fills my senses. And, I'm trying to embrace this fall as I drift off the rooted tree and float slowly (as if parachuted) in for a landing. But where?

I'm Falling and I Can't Get Up

Three months and 17 days. That's how long I've been unemployed. I've learned that that's not long in this economy and that many of the people I've met in that time have been looking for work for over a year.

Those people are good at it. They've been pitching themselves as best they can for at least half that time. They've got their resumes just right. They have a clear definition of what they're looking for and where they hope to be in a year. Many of them have their "elevator speech" down pat.

"Hi. My name's Jill Jobless and I'm a Life Coach. I can turn your world around and I can monetize your business and make your life a lot easier. Here's my card. I'd love a chance to sit down and share more of what I have to offer your company at your convenience."

Well, maybe it's something like that. I'm not sure. I don't have mine --- not even in my head, really.

It's only been a little over three months, but I feel sorely behind schedule in my search. What? No "elevator speech?"

I need to pump it up. Turn up the volume. Get a stinkin' job, as we used to shout out from Lake Shore Drive as we drove past Oak Street Beach in the summer.

But it's not just any job I'm after, although I'm not opposed to many. I have a mortgage to pay, so that's my first concern. And I want to be good at my next job. I was darn good at my last one, actually, and that's where I'm most comfortable.

I fear I'm not so darn good at job hunting. I've got a lot to learn ... but then I've seen this episode of my life as a learning experience all along. Learning to recreate the person I had allowed myself to accept as me. But is that really me? I have to stop and wonder ... and examine and re-examine ... and focus ... focus ... focus.

And so what color is my parachute or, more to the point, am I wearing one?