This morning, the alarm went off and I did not get up. I turned over and found A and little boom hugged up close; the next 45 minutes were half-aware bliss of warmth and comfort and a concious decision to take a rest day.
All to soon responsibility knocked and we stretched our way out the door. I peppered the day with analysis but mostly I’ve reflected on my life, my paths, and which one I’ll choose. I wrote to A, explaining that I am a ball of confusion, a mess of hopes and worries, a Pollock when it comes to plans.
Then my dad called. When he talks to me, it feels as though everything will be okay. Even if things are so far away from being okay, it’s all in my mind. He reminds me that my situation is a choice, and gets right to the root of these crops of fear invading my heart: my job. What seemed a gift on a golden platter turned out to be St. John the Baptist’s head. Yes, sacriligious, and a slight exaggeration, but the queasiness is all too real. This vertigo goes hand in hand with taking risks, but it seems I’ve truly fallen in a hole. Staying here would be irresponsible. It is time to figure out how to climb out. I await the response of my direct question: will you hire me?
If the answer is no, then so be it. I go home, I give boom a hug, I find another job, I toot another horn. If the answer is yes: what? The no seems easier to grasp right now. The yes, just a setup for another cruel joke. And I, of course, am the pranker. I do this to myself, I am to blame for any heartache I incur. I acknowledge it, but I do not hate myself for it.
If my family is able to show me such love that makes my heart burst, I must show myself the same. What, now, is the loving decision? What is the path marked in strict compassion? This is the answer I should have asked off the bat. It is no easier to answer, but seems much more sensible that “what is the right decision.”
They are one and the same, but love is richer than right.
Thank God for my family and all my blessings.