Mudding Along in My Career: Working for Coin

“Haven’t you liked doing the work?”
“Of course I have. I just wish I could go slower in order to enjoy selecting the glass more, to feed myself with each beautiful swirl, to linger over the nuances building up. If I don’t love the feelings I have while creating those windows, I’m only working for coin and not from soul.” (Clara and Mr. Tiffany, Susan Vreeland, 53)

I have been doing a lot of thinking about my job lately. Despite my perpetual hatred for its tedious nature and few interactions with humans, I am trying to remind myself it is only a stepping stone. I will not be entering data into Microsoft Access forever; this will lead me to better things. Only, doing that is difficult when every day I go to work hating my job.

The other day, my grandparents came to drop something off at my house. Since I got the job entering data, my grandfather has taken it upon himself to check the newspaper’s classifieds every day for a job I might like.

“He’s still looking!” my grandmother laughed, “But I approve the jobs! I know you want to get a job doing something you like.”

My internship at the historical society. I was looking through
old documents on this day. THIS was working for the soul. 

Then, the saddest words I have come to hear reached my ears. Grandpa said, “I never did the job I always wanted to do…a mechanic, working with cars. Instead, I drove a truck around delivering newspapers. I went for the money.”

“No, that’s now how it is for kids today,” Grandma intervened, “They want to do what they enjoy and not for the money!” (At least, for me it’s this case. For others it is completely different, of course.)

This brings my back to the quote from Clara and Mr. Tiffany by Susan Vreeland that began this post: “I’m only working for coin and not from soul.” Working for money is not the direction I want my career goals to take. I’d rather be happy working with my writing and whatever else strays across my path then being comfortable with a job that makes me unhappy. Ever since I was little, that was my goal: To have a job that makes me happy to go into work, excited. 40 hours a week is, after all, a long time to waste time doing something you hate.

I have worked four jobs, including my internships. Both actual jobs I got paid for I enjoyed, including the grocery store cashier. My internships, however, were not challenging enough and I always finished my writing much sooner than my supervisors expected. 

Last year, during my internship at the historical society, the day came when I absolutely loved what I was doing and that was looking through old letters and newspaper clippings in a box. I remember organizing what was in the box according to a list that was provided and reading the recipes that were there while typing them up. (To see the finished product, go here.) I thought about including this in my possible job searches, yet no ideas have come up yet. 

And so the search continues to discover where my career passions lie. I am determined find happiness, whether it be in one job or a mixture of them that I find as the years pass. Each experience working will bring me a better idea of what I need to make me both happy and inspire my writing. Unfortunately, punching data into Access does not fulfill those requirements. 

Just like Clara says in the quote, I am going to work for soul and not for money. In the end, that’s what will make my life worthwhile, and until I have reached that point in my career, my writing will suffice in keeping me sane in between breaks from the database.  

Have Wheels, Will Tumble

Growing up, some of my favorite books to read were TheAmazing Days of Abby Hayes, written by Anne Mazer, in which ten year old Abby navigates the world and her seemingly perfect family by writing in her journal. Book number five I pulled from my shelf less than five minutes ago, and it is called Have Wheels, Will Travel. In it, Abby decides to save up her money and buy herself a new pair of roller blades, so she can go out with her friends. 

Middle of Nowhere, New England is a place not friendly for roller blading. Rocks cover the driveway to my house, and there are no sidewalks; there was nowhere for me to roller blade. It’s always been a small dream, never fulfilled.

Until few weeks ago, when I sat at the table in my friend's house eating, when he blurted out, "Do you know how to roller blade?" 

Well, I thought, I can roller skate and I can ice skate so it shouldn't be too hard. "Yeah," I replied, the spontaneous offer already making me nervous, "Why?"

"I think my mom's skates will fit you." He dashed away and returned with them in his hands. They fit me perfectly. "Let's go!" I trailed behind him in my socks, making time just to grab my phone. 

Once we arrived, I felt like Abby Hayes. Before she has her own, new pair of roller blades, she has to wear her sister's old pair and the buckles stick. Putting on my pair, I realized I had no idea how to do it.  After some fumbling and help, they were on tight.

My legs were wobbly when I started off. "I'll get the hang of it," I tell him as he glided without effort over the pavement, a walking path near his house. "Once I get going, I'll be fine."

Funny enough, I did do fine. Not good, since he was trying to show me the correct way of skating without breathing like I just ran a marathon, but still, I was steady on my feet. As we reached the hill, I squealed in glee, ready to take on the challenge and climb up it--except I did not account for going down. 

A walking path I saw once that represents what the
walking path near my house looks like--not suitable for
anything with wheels!

The left side of the walking path has a bit of sand, for horses when they walk. For most of the hill, I was swerving a little, not too much, though; however, I was afraid to stop and fall because of my speed. I could see it as it happened. I started drifting to the left, towards the sand. It must have been a spectacular fall to see. At the other end of it, I was laying on the ground with sand sticking to my sweaty skin. Glancing up, I saw my friend had skated far down the hill and did not know I fell; he swerved around as I was standing up to brush myself off. 

"What happened?" he called, grinning like a fool. "You should have stopped yourself." The scrapes on my legs weren't too bad, so we continued on, discussing the story I was writing along the way. 

It wasn't until he stopped to grab his phone that I tried to stop too, flailing my arms around to find what little balance left me long ago. Down I went, on my knee. Sitting on the ground, I saw it was a huge scrape and blood was already starting to drip down. "I have something to tell you," I said, "I don't think I know how to roller blade." (Later, my mom confirmed it with a dumbfounded expression as she said, "You have never roller bladed in your life!") 

"Okay, we'll turn around and go home," he reaching his hand to help me up, grinning again. The trek back was too long; it was a relief to flop into his car and tear the skates from my feet.

Realization spread over me. I asked him why we didn't put on knee pads, and he said it was because I told him I knew how to roller blade.

Next time, I’ll stick to walking.