Careful what you wish for

Have you ever been so busy you didn’t have time to clip your toenails? That recently became an item on my To-Do list. It’s been under post on your blog and I finally got a night off to do it.

The past few weeks have been a whirlwind. I went from being depressed because I was unemployed to being depressed because I was working too much. Against my better judgment, I applied for work at a temp agency. I had to wear that dreaded suit that I have often tried to leave behind while I’ve been traveling.  I almost left it San Francisco twice, but my practical side won and I took it with me. After several weeks of not working enough shifts to get by as a waitress in the bistro of a pub, I needed to find a second job. 

After being called for an interview, I uncomfortably sat on the bus in a suit on an unseasonably warm spring day. It was an 11:00 interview, past the hour most people in suits are on the bus. I felt out of place, and dreaded the suit even more. When I arrived at the office, I waited. I met the first girl, then the second girl. They both asked typical interview questions and I’d be surprised if either of them were over 25. Then I had to take computer tests on my software skills. I fought the urge to leave several times in those 2 hours. I questioned myself on why I was even there.  I was leaving Chicago to get away from exactly this, administrative office work.  I tried to get a work in more enjoyable fields. The yacht club said they’d call, but they didn’t. Coffee shops wanted 2+ years experience making coffees (Sydneysiders are coffee connoisseurs). My limited visa status always scares away the non-profits and other career-focused work. So I am a temp. In an office.

Here is the bright side, its on Garden Island, a naval base for the Royal Australian Navy.  I have an amazing view of the Sydney Opera House and the bridge from right outside my office. It’s a mobile office on the wharf, just picture a shipping container with windows. The company I work for repairs old Navy ships and my morning meetings are conducted on a battleship. My work clothes include jeans,  steel toe-boots, safety glasses and a hardhat. My co-workers are nice and my boss makes me coffee.

However working two jobs has taken a toll on me. I work from very early in the morning, to the afternoon then head to the pub to work nights. It becomes easy to lose sight on why I am here. I have settled in and have a routine. Work is my main concern,  Sydney is a very expensive city, but the summer going by in the background of my days. I try to write but my creative energy is zapped. It seems all too familiar.

Its easy to get lost in the mundane details of life. Being in Australia isn’t any different to being in Chicago or any other place you settle.  The key is to figure out what you want to get out of any experience and then decide if you are achieving it. My current goal is to make to travel Australia, but how much of my travel time is being absorbed by making money? At least I’m only a temp.

City Girl, Country Heart

Sydney is a vibrant, diverse city of 4 million. It is loud, fast-paced, and cosmopolitan. It is a city, like many cities in the Western world. I grew up in Chicago so this should be an easy transition.  But its not. Sydney is like New York City with an accent. Work is plentiful, but without a specialization it is low paid compared to the very high cost of living. People are in close quarters to each other, which I believe makes people irritable and rude.  People yell and scream, honk and traffic and avoid eye contact as you pass them in the street. This happens in Chicago, but maybe its because I’m a native there I don’t notice it as much. In Chicago I just stick to my neighborhoods where I get a smaller town feel.  So after I was walking home from my job at the local pub, I thought about this for the first time. Maybe I’m not a city person.

When I first moved to New Zealand I was terrified of living in a small town. I had only visited small towns in the U.S. and I didn’t linger long.  Small towns I visited in the U.S. were quaint, but I reasoned I would get bored quickly.  It wasn’t until I left the cities (a loose term in New Zealand considering the whole country has less people than Chicago), that I realized the country wasn’t so bad.  I spent most of my time in New Zealand in the South Island, areas by the oceans and mountains with low populations. I lived on Stewart Island, a small island of the tip of New Zealand’s South Island with a population of less than 200 and no emergency care. I lived on a boat with 12 people. I lived on the Farewell Spit, a conservation area with only 2 houses and a tiny village nearby. I was happier than I had ever been. When I returned to the city I found it hard to get used to people that didn’t say hello or look at you in the eye when you passed. In small towns people talk to you to find out who you are. Of course there are small towns that would be much to conservative and homogenous for me to enjoy. But the hippie colonies of Golden Bay are the anti-thesis to small town stereotypes.

San Francisco is the exception to my current view on big cities.  It was a laid back city, comfortable and welcoming.  But its also 15,000 miles away.  I’m not letting Sydney wear me down, it’s an uphill battle but I’m going to be here until the New Year. I’m learning a lot about what I like and dislike about the places I live.  And that was what I need, knowledge. It would have been easy to “do” Australia, hit the backpacker trail, party and see the tourist sights. But it’s only through difficult times that you come to realizations about yourself. And I wouldn’t trade this knowledge for all the air conditioned party buses headed up the east coast.

Halloween in Sydney

As I lamented spending Halloween in Australia, a country removed from the tradition, I decided it was time to go for a stroll to relieve my melancholy. There was a market in nearby Newtown, a bohemian neighborhood in Sydney. As I approached the area I started noticing more and more goth kids. I suspect all major cities have them now, kids in black clothes and morbid makeup. I reminisced of my time as a 14 year old goth kid in high school. One of the few hispanic goths in the multicultural city of Chicago. Ah, back in those days we made our own goth clothes, not bought them in the mall. As I got closer to the market in Newtown the shops had stalls outside selling black tutus, Manic Panic hair  color in purple and blues and fake orange eyelashes. The closer I got to Newtown, the more goths there were. But not just kids, older people, families and toddlers wearing black with crazy colored hair. Black eye makeup everywhere.

I finally got to the market and everything had the same theme. There was a casket up for auction alongside screen-printed skulls on tight skirts. I tried one on. Hmmm, if I would have worn this in high school, maybe I shouldn't be wearing it at 31. Or maybe that's exactly why I should. I didn't fit anyway. So I decided to do something else reminiscent of my 14 year old high school self. Sit and drink endless cups of coffee while I write in my journal. It is a beautiful summer day and everyone is in black. I watched groups of women in 18th century style black bustiers and red tulle happily swing their dark parisols as they trotted down the street. A horse driven open carriage with a casket made its way through the traffic. I smiled as I sipped my coffee, I'm not missing Halloween after all.

The grass is always greener

I arrived In Sydney that morning. Soon, I was staring at the ocean from the opposite side of the world. I heard a roar of a plane overhead.  I looked up and saw the familiar kangaroo emblem on its tail. Was it the same plane that had dropped me off hours ago? Was it going back home? I felt like a lost child in a parking lot watching mother’s car slowly drive off.

As the days here have passed, I keep noticing planes flying overhead. I wonder where they are going and who they are leaving behind.  Are their lives about to change or are they going on a routine business trip? The possibility of it all makes me contemplate my situation.

San Francisco was an amazing place. I could be in a cozy coffee shop watching someone jam on their Fisher-Price boom-box or could go for a hike alongside the ocean watching surfers from the overhang.  I could love this city.  The warm nights gave me a nostalgic feeling of a summer long gone in Chicago.

I walked along the Sydney Harbor Bridge remembering the first time I had seen it. I remember staring at the forged steel and brick in perfect unison over the gentle waves of the water underneath.  I stood in amazement back then. But now the Golden Gate Bridge outshines Sydney Harbor Bridge in an industrial orange sunburst. 

A few days ago when I sat on the beach watching the planes overhead I was homesick. I wondered again why I was here. If I were in Chicago, I would wonder the same thing.  Many of us have this ingrained notion that we should constantly be striving for something better, that this (whatever “this” is) is not enough. We work harder for more things, we travel further for more exotic lands, constantly wanting something else.  It generates the idea that where we are is not good enough. Engineers and entrepreneurs make a living this constant search for a better future.

The progress of humanity has been dependant on a search for something better. On one hand we are never happy with what we have, but on the other hand we are achieving progress.  Sometimes we find what we are looking for. Sometimes we find we always had what we were looking for. Sometimes we find what we want isn’t what we need. Ultimately the search for something greater  teaches us more than the result.

Somewhere over the rain....

After much anxiety, stress, and worry, I settled back into my coach seat with a glass of Jack Daniels in my hand. I was re-reading a book by one of my favorite authors of Western style Buddhism. I took a deep breath. I started to relax and the feelings of worry started to settle. I was not rid of my worry, but instead I didn’t let it bother me. Acceptance. My mind felt  sore from being so would up for the past few days. I looked over out the window and I saw it. It was a patch of rainbow and we were flying above it. Maybe that’s what the top of a rainbow looks like.

  Rainbows had become a symbol for me in New Zealand.  I went to New Zealand without knowing anyone and started over. At first I stressed out and I strived to be ok with my decision. Some days were better than others. When I despaired and reached a breaking point, I held on, and came back to center. After I accepted the situation, the universe reassured me that everything was fine. I would see a rainbow. I know- sounds crazy. And if you are familiar with New Zealand, rainbows aren’t that uncommon. But I would see them exactly when it mattered.  I faced difficult decisions out there and only after my decision was made AND I was OK with it, would I see a rainbow. I wasn’t a divine sign showing me the way, it was a sign that I would be fine regardless of what happened.

There were many instances, but one of them was pretty frightening. New Zealand’s weather changes incredibly fast making it difficult for predicting good hiking weather. I was on an alpine mountain crossing when it started to hail. It became so windy that twice I was knocked down on the ground. The ridge I was on was narrow and slippery from the hail. I couldn’t turn back, but I couldn’t go forward. I crouched on the side of the mountain, waiting for the weather to subside, but I was getting very cold and wet.  I had to keep going. I crawled along the ridge with a pack on my back until I could get up without being knocked down by the wind. As I crawled I thought, I might not make it. But I couldn’t let that bother me or else I would not make it. So I kept going, only focusing on my next steps. A few days later I was in the town nearest to that mountain. I was walking down the road, and I looked up. There was fresh snow on that mountain and a rainbow piercing the clouds. This wasn’t the only time this had happened.

So as I sat there, after all my stress about leaving again, I became OK with it. I knew I was doing this because I would be more unhappy not doing it. Regret, especially due to lack of resolve,  is my biggest fear.  I looked at the rainbow. Tears streaming down slowly over my cheeks as the rainbow slowly faded away.

I was content for the rest of the trip. It had been raining heavily heading into the San Francisco. The plane had been very shaky. It felt like I was in  a toy plane on a  mobile above a child’s crib. The rain was coming down hard, streaking against the windows sideways, making it look like cracks in the glass. There was no visibility. I expected air masks to shoot out suddenly in the dark cabin. I looked out the window again and I saw white peaks. Snow in California? I had no idea how high or where we were. Maybe the Sierra Nevada had snow? No. They were whitecaps in the ocean. The waves were violently protesting all the rain that it had taken in. I kept staring as we grew closer and closer to the water. I wasn’t sure why we were over the ocean when we flew from Chicago.

We flew closer and closer to the water. We were just barely above the waves. As we approached the ocean I braced for a water landing. I was terrified of drowning, but it didn’t matter. I had no control, no amount of worry would change anything. Suddenly there was a loud bang and with a harsh jolt we were airborne and then dropped back in our seats, feeling land under the wheels. We had landed. Everyone cheered. I didn’t know the tarmac paralleled the ocean in San Francisco. A wave of relief swept over me. My journey had begun.

Even my coffee cup wants to know...

I’m leaving Chicago in 3 days. I’ll be starting over in a new country in a week. I’ve been a mix of nervous, anxious and moody. I tend to overthink everything now, in reaction to my pending departure. I went from “who knows if I’ll come back” to “I’ll be here in May”.  Its just easier when the ground is pulled from under your feet that you hold on to something. I’m holding on to May, for practical reasons. If I want to start grad school, I’ll need time to apply for 2011. But I’m also clinging to May because its easier to comprehend. It gives me a preliminary goal, something I can understand. And when I tell people May, they can understand it too, so it doesn’t feel so far away. Time is only understood measured.

Like most people, I’ve measured my life in terms of relative achievements and goals. Not having a defined goal makes your life harder to quantify. Without a relative destination, where am I? I would love to say I have a plan for my life. That way I could at least know where I was at right now in relation.  And that is exactly my problem. Constantly looking for an answer to help define myself. It gets exhausting. I have to stop living in the future. Because regardless of how I will remember this era, It doesn’t matter. I have to be focused on living it right now.

I remind myself to think of the present. I refocus from trying to comprehend some wider unknown goal, to focus on what is right in front of me. I become calmer and more aware. This does not mean I lack objectives, it just means I let them develop naturally. I don’t make goals to make me feel better, I make goals because I truly want to achieve them. This thought makes me relax a bit, my face softens. It will come to me. I know it will.

Quiet Girl

I  used to be that girl. The one that was spoke so quietly that her voice faded into background noise. The girl that hid behind her hair and stared at her shoes. The girl that was dismissed easily because she didn’t command attention. Growing up I had a hard time relating to people. Even ordering food at a fast food restaurant was difficult. The anxiety that would creep in of saying the wrong thing or even being so unsure of what I wanted that the pressure to tell the cashier my order was overwhelming. It sort of got better over time. Not a huge amount, but I at least I had a few routines I followed  to minimize my anxiety. I ordered the same thing at every restaurant, I left the room when I had nothing to say. Still,  when people in positions of power spoke to me, I had often reverted back to the quiet girl with her head down. I don’t know why, I was not really shy. When I was comfortable, I talked about everything and anything. I was open. I was a even bit of a daredevil.

Fast  forward to my adult life. I was not happy. I had been in a 9 year relationship that drained any bits of self confidence. In a job where there was no creative outlet. I tried to look for another job, but I always shot myself down before I even applied. I know I’m smart, resourceful and a hard worker but what does that matter if I can’t have confidence in myself? Who would have faith in me?

So I left it all behind when I got on that plane to the Southern Hemisphere. I became someone that no one knew. And I did things I didn’t know I was capable of doing. I went up to random people and introduced myself. I adjusted to living with people I had just met. I'm scared of heights, but I made myself go skydiving. I snorkeled even though my fear of drowning kept me inhaling water. I just kept doing it. And I would love to say it is easy now and my problems are solved. But its not. Its something I have to do over and over again. Discomfort is a good teacher. That first hello to someone new, I bite my tongue. But that second hello to the next person comes with a genuine smile.

What Motivates You?

A few years ago I was in college for my undergrad. I remember my favorite philosophy professor made a comment to me that still makes me contemplate its meaning. He remarked, you are a person that needs to find meaning in your work. I remember being surprised at this comment, and even somewhat speechless. Didn’t everyone find meaning in their work? Why would that be so odd?

Three years after graduation I found myself in a rut and I left to travel. I put myself in uncomfortable situations to make up for my prior laziness. I went to New Zealand lived in hostels, hitchhiked, lived in an ashram, climbed a few mountains and learned how to live on a boat. The best part of it all was meeting people that were doing the same thing. People that were unsatisfied with their living situations and took to the road. So lately I’ve taken to trying to figure out what motivates people. 

I’ve received a variety of answers many boiling down to money and fame, but those just don’t excite me. I am not passing judgment on those, but it just doesn’t do it for me. Travel get me excited, but does it motivate me? Not necessarily. The feeling from understanding the world as part of an integrated universe. The experience in everything around me. In short, feeling alive and learning from it.

Can that happen without travel, in our everyday lives? Maybe. But for me it happens most when I travel. I tend to meet new people when I travel and within minutes know a lot about them. I take a better look around when I am traveling. I do and learn new things. I feel connected to the world around me. That motivates me. How can I continue to do it? How can I turn this into a career or at least sustain the pace?

**sigh** I wish I were motivated by money or fame. That would be a lot easier.

Quarter-life Crisis Mode in Full Effect...

This morning I had an appointment with a career adviser at my alma mater to discuss a career path / should I go to grad school. I had the spiel ready of what I've studied, what work I've done and why I went to New Zealand. For those of you that aren't familiar with my saga, here it is in a nutshell;  I studied several different majors in college, did quite well in all of them, but was never happy until I became an International Studies major and Philosophy minor. I stayed in the same financial services administrative job after college and after a while was unhappy in that field of work. I am not an administrative type person, I prefer creativity and complex problem-solving. So I quit to work in non-profits and travel. I applied for a visa in New Zealand and took off for 7 months. I discovered a lot about myself, learned more about who I am in those 7 months than I have the past 30 years. Now I was back home, and what should I do? Well, I knew the answer, I had to keep traveling. I needed to learn more about who I wanted to be.

But I turned 31 recently and the other night I had a dream that my hair was 70% grey. This was after I attended an International Grad School Fair. I found the program of my dreams, in Paris on Sustainable Development, yet it was obvious the school prefers their students to attend right after undergrad. It even states it on some of their marketing material that they welcome students under the age of 27. Twenty-seven!! That was four years ago. Then the calm rational person that understood that I needed to keep exploring the world took a hike (or a nap since she is getting older) and now the new me went into full quarter-life crisis mode.

So here I was in my career adviser's office freakin' out about what I needed to do to get my life straightened out and find a plan. I talked about my friends and how they all had careers in their fields of choice. I knew that I shouldn't be comparing myself to other people, but its human nature. I felt like I was having an out of body experience. I heard my voice crack with emotion at how I am very good at several things, but nothing that I would be able to specialize in. She spoke to me in the same clinical tone that I grew to dislike about counselors. That tone that suggests she has heard this all before and there was a simple solution. Just do what you're doing. Keep exploring. But what if I get too old, I asked? The counselor was in her 50's and the question also seemed to imply something about her. I got my master's when I was 40 she said. Yeah, I thought to myself, if I want to be a counselor, I wouldn't be worried.

She was telling me what I knew all along, don't go to grad school until you are sure. Figure out who you are and what you want to do by process of elimination. Try new things (and new places- I added). Keep reflecting on what you're doing and what motivates you.  When I went to college I wasn't a traditional student. I was a bit older than my colleagues and that actually was a bonus. I had more life experience.That is something you cannot get in grad school. All these things I already knew. But somehow, it sounded better coming from someone with grey hair.

Selling my attachments

The sounds of coffee cups clinking, soft music, water running and an expresso machine buzzing sorround me in this coffee shop. The singer coos, “life is good” as a soft guitar starts to pick up the rythem. I sip my coffee and think over the past few hours. I had sold a good majority of my personal effects in a yard/life sale. I sat there and watched anxiously as people picked pieces of my existence and judged them. Worthy of a dollar? Perhaps. Perhaps not, and they would set them down after a second’s consideration. I would make a terrible business woman I thought, since I really didn’t want them to buy anything. It feels like they are buying my experiences. How much for this an older Korean man asks me about a mini copper curiosity. Oh that I replied, well I bought that in Morrocco at a bazarr in this small town outside of Fez. After going through a labrinth of alleyways and streets, I found this tiny bazarr. He looks at me quizzically, then his faced twisted in a strained look. How much is it? he asks me again.  Oh, $2, I replied. One he counters, and I shook my head, looking down at my feet. No, I can’t, I say. He keeps looking through my things. I sat back down on my porch steps thinking about the past few days. I had the noble proposition to get rid of as much of my belongings as possible. I was, after all, about to begin traveling again, and I really didn’t need most of my belongings for a good long time. I didn’t know if I was coming back, but if I was it would be after a long time away. These things only took up space and I had moved them from apartment to apartment for the last several years. Besides, attachment is suffering proclaims the Buddha. And I agree. It is, and I was suffering getting rid of all those attachments. When I started going through my things for this sale, I would pick up an item and say, “I bought this when I was traveling cross-country and we  (boyfriend at the time, and I) stopped off in New Orleans. There were torrential downpours that weekend, but we spent our days getting soaked and wandering the old neighborhoods. The colors of the old houses had a special glow amidst the warm, humid air. I remember looking into this shop and thinking I could use a dry shirt. And I bought this one. This attachment. The guy I traveled with at that time has been long gone, but the memory of that time still lived on. And now I was about to sell it for $1.

But its not the money that I was after. I needed to let go. I need to realize that all these attachments represent the past. The paintings for sale that hung in an old apartment where I was unhappy. The shoes I bought when I last reinvented myself to someone I wanted to be, but ultimately, I was not. It would have been much easier to drive up to the local resale shop and given these things away. But I had to face my things and myself, for 5 hours on a cloudy Sunday afternoon. I had to look at them and say goodbye to that life, there is no room in my backpack for those things. I’ll be traveling again in three weeks.

I sip on my third cup of coffee, watching the rain outside the window. The music is still soft, but now the singer same singer is cooing "it won’t be long for me." I agree. e heeHERHHHHVFDLVKJRLEVMKERLMVRLMVLKERMBVBVR