I quit my job last Monday. I quit it because I said I would. I did it in the quietest way possible–I put in my two weeks. I was responsible and quiet and easy and amenable and kept on for picking up shifts. I’m kept on for picking up shifts because I am blessed, and people are kind and good to me.
But this is not all.
I quit my job to pursue this current trend of me booking acting jobs.
I quit my job because I said I would.
I have always been blessed, and people have been kind and good. Somehow. In their way.
I have never fallen as hard as I think I should.
I have never fallen.
This is a lie.
My life is a close call. No call. Last call. It is almost sleeping on the PATH but not quite needing to. It is near homelessness hail-Mary-ed by a Godsend. It is not your place to question.
So, I quit my job because while I have long been subject to goodness I have rarely trusted it.
How can you say you love something if you do not trust it?
How can you love without sacrifice?
I don’t know what I’m talking about or how good it can get, but I’m leaning towards both in the hopes that you know more than I.
Please know more than I.
I love you. I trust you. You are the thing that keeps me buoyed.
There was an unclaimed track of land between the Bachelor’s House and my friend Allen’s house when we lived on the Retreat. The Retreat was the cul-de-sac where we spent the bulk of our single digit years. We moved when I was nearly 12 or so. Our home was blue and well cared for. The unclaimed track we called The Field. It had a solid stable flat top, that edged into the alley behind it, and a steep drop into the street, making it nearly unbuildable for a home. So, The Field. I imagine it must be written that way because we pronounced it that way. I would lay in The Field often, alone. I had no friends to speak of before 11 or so–can’t you tell? With the bookishness and the arrogance? I was a terror. I wold lay in The Field, mid afternoon, to watch the sun set, or the grass grow. Watch boys play tag or basketball or soccer. Girls trot by in their adolescent attempts for affection, for confirmation, for love. We were all practicing love, in our own way. If the grass was unkempt, long enough from the neighborhood’s benign neglect, I would be hidden. The Field bore flowers, bore pollen, bore bees, bore tall weedy grasses. I lay in these earthy stems and thought about what would be enough.
I knew then, at 8, or 9, that I could be fine, contented, fulfilled, but I would not be happy. Happiness is no guarantee. I was not happy without friends–but I was fine. Later, I was not happy without boobs–but I had friends. Later still, I was not happy without the right crop top, or knowledge of blow jobs, or dyed hair–but I was fine. I was contented. I was fulfilled. That grass and that sky and that air was more than enough and delicious.
I’ve learned that delicious is often simple.
I have quit my job and I am terrified. I don’t know if I’m happy. I am fulfilled. I worry that we’re told they are the same.
I am moving through a vat of unnameable, unknowable, until I emerge out the other side a mucky messy stinky version of my core. Reskinned. Unmade.
You will be fine.
Keep choosing the grass and the sky and the air. You will be fine.
You will not always be happy.
The secret of joy is that it feels entirely different.
I am moving. Changing. Fearful.
Please stay here with me. Let me see you on the other side.
I would sing to myself in the grass of The Field. No one else was around.
For the first time since then, I sing to myself again. No one is around. And if they are, I don’t care. I haven’t the space to worry. There is only what’s next, and the good prayer you laid down before the work.
There is only all of it, or as much as possible.