Since several people have commented on it, it's certainly worth noting that I haven't written in a while. It's easy to write when I'm on vacation for winter break or when there's extra time to spare. It's just that since I've gone back to work it doesn't seem like there is any time to spare, especially when I leave in the dark, come home in the dark, driving an hour each way. The commute seemed more manageable in the summer with the daylight and a fresh new attitude. Now the winter has stolen away the sunshine and I feel like I get up, go to work, make dinner (maybe), get into bed and then get up to do it all over again. Some might say, that's the life of a working adult. But I know that's not the only way to live.
I just finished reading
Affluenza by John DeGraaf, David Wann and Thomas Naylor. It's older now, having been written in 2001 as a follow up to their influential PBS documentary about the negative personal, ecological and societal effects of overconsumption. Especially as I've hit a challenging patch in my current job, I find myself wondering about the type of life I want to live and whether the career path I've chosen fits into it. There's the personal commitment I'm supposed to put in based purely on my intrinsically-motivated care for students, there are the long hours (which I'll admit are hardly long compared to my last position, but curiously still feel long to me) and then there's the low pay for a relatively high level of responsibility.
When I think about what truly makes me happy in my job, it's not mental stimulation (that usually causes me anguish, actually) or status (which I don't really have anyway), it's simply the service I can provide people and the social interaction I have with them on a daily basis. Right now I provide students help for rather heavy and complicated issues, such as alcohol and drug abuse, depression or family problems. The fact of the matter is, I think I'd be just as happy, maybe even happier doing something simple like greeting people, answering the phone with a cheery voice or even scooping ice cream and making coffee (I used to do that in college and loved it!)
A few weeks ago I went to the dentist to have my teeth cleaned after about a year and a half gap, which is atypical for me. Based on my new employment and an insurance change I had to go to a new dentist for the first time in my life. I have been going to the same small town, private practice dentist who also works on the animals' teeth at the zoo for nearly 25 years. So I went from that to the corporate environment of Forward Dental. I didn't want to, I'd much rather support my local dentist, but I decided I don't pay for insurance to not use it. So, I went. The dentist was a tool, but the hygienist was very pleasant. We talked as she cleaned my teeth and I asked her about her training and learned more about what she likes in her job. You're probably wondering, what does this have to do with simple living and general existential questioning, right? Well, it sparked a memory for me of something I haven't though about in a long time.
From about age 12 to 17 I really, really wanted to be a dentist. So much so, that I received a dentist Barbie at age 16 and did a job shadow with my awesome family dentist. At that time I decided that the work was too meticulous for me and eventually dropped the interest. But as I sat in the chair talking with the hygienist, my curiosity in the dental work environment was sparked again and most of all I had a glimpse of that feeling of wonder you get when you are purely interested in something without all the worry about whether it's the "right" thing or what it would mean for your life (making money, surviving, identity, pride, etc.) I just marveled at the joy of remembering an interest that was sparked from a childhood place. I thought, there's meaning in that pure kind of desire.
I had this on my mind in the days after my dental visit and have ever since. I've been fantasizing about a practical job without all of the academic, idealistic wanking. Something that requires a technical skills, social interaction and allows me to go home at night without worry about ambiguity or things left unfinished. I recognize that being a dental hygienist, or a mail carrier or a secretary in an office where I get to do a lot of chatting are all escape fantasies for me. Sometimes it's not useful to fantasize about alternate lives, especially in a recession where I can't escape hearing on the radio and TV every day that we're all doomed and finding new employment is next to impossible.
But I also think, maybe it is useful to fantasize about those escapes. Maybe they come with less prestige than my current work, but maybe not. Maybe they represent my inner desires, my values and something that might make me happy on a daily basis. For me, thinking about leaving my current career field is an issue of pride. What would people think of me? Why did I work so hard to gain this specialized advanced degree to leave the field after four years? Would I be bored? How would I feel about myself? Would I feel "good enough"? I'm not sure what that even means anyway, because I don't usually feel good enough as it is.
This internal dilemma about where work fits into my life causes me to wonder why my pride is so symbiotically linked to my degrees and this idealistic academic path. Degrees don't speak to my most closely held values or the person I am at my core. What does pride about education mean if I'm not happy on a daily basis? Is quotidian happiness even possible for me in my current line of work and how will I know? Will things get easier over time or is this work inconsistent with my true desires? So many questions, so much ambiguity.
Ry tells me all the time that I wonder about these things and feel strong emotions about them because I am a textbook
"4". For those of you familiar with the
Enneagram, I wholeheartedly agree with the assessment of me as a 4. Meaning, meaning, meaning and more search for meaning. I should probably just stop with all of this questioning about what's right so I can step back and get some perspective, let myself experience my current situation more fully.
Finally, on a different but related note, Ry and I recently traveled to Louisiana with his brothers for his grandmother's funeral. His grandma was ninety years old and lived a very full life that was centered around family and simplicity. I didn't know her well and only had the privilege of meeting her a few times. But hearing about how she lived out her values and cultivated a deep richness in her life out of very little material wealth was inspiring to me. It reminded me that it doesn't take much in the way of stuff to find peace. It also reminded me that family is central to happiness. I want our family to be the most important thing in my life, period.
Speaking of family, we spent four days with Ry's dad's family. Though we were together for a sad reason, it was a blessing to spend time with relatives from his extended family. To meet aunts, uncles and cousins whom I've never met before, to tour land and homes with storied significance and to watch my husband make lovely music with nearly every male in his immediate family. All of these experiences felt very important to me. I finally got an inside look at that side of Ryan's family all together and felt connected with it in a new way. Not sure what it was, but I felt more Knudson than ever before.
What my cat thinks about Student Affairs, academic wanking and existential dilemmas. In case you couldn't quite see, that's the
Chronicle of Higher Education he's stepping all over.
The long awaited Knudson jam.
Brothers and Dad, photo courtesy of Uncle Carl.
All of the Knudsons, minus three who couldn't make the trip, photo courtesy of Uncle Carl.
The road to Uncle Carl's house.
A bloom in spite of the cold, something for Grandma June.
Treasures in Uncle Carl's sunroom.
The artist in his castle: Uncle Carl.
Charcoal drawing of Knudt Knudson. May your soul be at rest Knudt.
Porch lion in the sun. King of all DeRidder.
Swing in Carl's yard. Where I'd like to spend my afternoons.
The typical scene: getting seven Knudsons into a mini van is like trying to wrangle cats.
My feet, planted firmly on the ground.
