An Epiphany: A Short Essay on Passion

I had an epiphany.

One night, I was watching Dirty Jobs with Mike Rowe and he said something that fascinated me: "Don't follow your passion; take your passion with you." It made total sense. To follow your passion is a traditional piece of advice one generation gives to the next, but it is totally fallacious. Take me, for example. I tried to follow my passion, and now I find myself unemployable. Rowe said a person's passions are too important to keep at a distance ahead of them; they should be kept close at their side.

So, don't follow your passion. Even if you end up employable after following your passion, your passion becomes your work. When has that ever ended well? I know there are several divorcees who will answer with a resounding "not freaking often."

How many people love their jobs? Not many. Really not many. So, if following your passion leads to a lucrative career, you lose. Your passion will burn out, and you'll be stuck with a joyless, passionless life. It's far better to enter a field you could see yourself doing in an "eh, why not?" kind of way, then leaving your work at the office, and coming home with your passion intact. That way, you have a stable support structure in place that will allow for some recreational passion. Which will lead to a more fulfilled life.

You're not your job. Your life doesn't revolve around your career. Your passion should not be spent on something as petty as your work. If it is, you'll be surprised how fast you burn through it. Don't follow your passion; take your passion with you. I love it.

Dwelling in the Dark part 2

Nostalgia and regret keep me awake
Golden street lights shine through a small thicket in the black sky
More chlorine than water in my glass.

If I could perform a massive rewind and fix one mistake,
Would I do it?
How many butterflies would I crush?
One? Twenty?
What would I lose?
Would it be too much for one decision?
What is the cost of a sentence never spoken?
A look?
A touch?
Guilty memories, regrets, chagrin, are fresh forever--
A rotten apple at the bottom of a bushel.
A simple thought rekindles the pain--
It burns as bright as fresh blood.
Happy memories age and fade.
Every accomplishment molds from the bottom up.
The rotten endure.

Defeat haunts me.
It clouds my judgment and renders simple choices impossible.
One overshadows them all.
If I had the chance, would I undo it,
And replace the rotten with the ripe just to watch it wilt?
Or would I watch as my rock rolled down again,
And I, with chlorine-water in hand, begin to push it back up
Into the night sky?
My own personal hell?

No.
I can't not be what I was.
I can only be what I am.

Falling Asleep

The sun sets; the land cools.
Day slides over behind the mountains:
Night has overtaken me.
It is dark but I'm not scared.
It is cold but I don't shiver.
There should be a breeze off the sea
I should smell salt in the air
Hear parents calling children in for dinner
But there is nothing, nothing.

I turn from my window and look around the office.
It's not quite closing time.
I have my jacket on
Am waiting to leave
All that's left on my desk is my pocket watch
And a bare tree.
Time moves like a slug to a salt block
When it moves at all.
I turn back to the window
But it's different now.

There is the hard, plain truth
And the other, not as plain.

I see myself sinking,
Drifting out of consciousness,
And time melts away.
I am already asleep.
Maybe I have always been.

Symbols: An Essay on Objects we Imbue with Meaning and the Effect on the Human Experience

Symbols are everywhere. The only things that even have hope of escaping symbolism are close loved ones, and they can quickly become symbols themselves -- depending on the nature of the relationship. An example of this would be referring to a significant other as "the old ball-and-chain." Sometimes, an object can be symbolic of several things, and these things increase progressively in significance. When we mourn the loss of a person, pet, or (as materialistic as it is) a possession, we're mourning at least partly, sometimes completely, for the death of what that object symbolized. The death of that object can become a symbol in itself. When your first car gives up the ghost, it is hard for you to part with that organized pile of metal scrap because of all it symbolized: a new level of freedom, independence, excitement. the death of that car symbolizes a coming-of-age ("you've learned all I have to teach you; now I must go.") Sometimes the symbol o the death is so powerful that it is immortalized in our memories, and that object is often glorified ("I could always count on that old car").

Take, for example, the birth of Mary's litter of puppies. There were seven in all: Mac, Melody, Monty, Megan, Maribel, Mercedes, and Max. First, the puppies already symbolize a standard of cuteness that is hard to match. What makes these puppies particularly special is that they were born with the help of a graduate vet med student. It was very exciting for her. None of us had ever seen anything like it before. So there is an aura of extremely cute natural miracles and an exciting experience overall. Plus, the anticipation of these puppies maturing.

Max was particularly symbolic. He was the second-to-last puppy born, and wasn't breathing. Janis did all she could, even rescue breathing, but couldn't get him to come around. She placed him under a heat lamp and decided to check on him in the morning. The next morning, he was fine. He was clearly the runt of the litter and it remained to be seen whether his brain had been damaged, but to see him doing okay was a big win. In nature, it is likely the pup would have died. Because of Janis' intervention, mankind defied the natural order.

Since Max was the runt, we doted on him the most. We invested more cuddles and compassion on him than on the others. they're eyes weren't open yet, so the only one who seemed to mind was his mother, Mary. This puppy symbolized the underdog, and we were going to make sure that puppy thrived.

One night, Janis came home and announced that she had used Max as a reference of God performing miracles. This small, almost entirely black puppy now represented God. It couldn't yet open its eyes and was already filling infinitely big shoes.

The next night, as I was leaving, I checked on the puppies. Max was laying down underneath his mother. When I pulled him out, he was completely limp. His tongue was pale and his eyes pressed shut. Janis wasn't home. Katie tried to find his heartbeat with Janis' stethoscope, but she only heard bubbling. Max's lungs were filled with his mother's milk. Katie gently shook it out and tried rescue breaths. Janis came home and found a small, slow heartbeat, but it wasn't enough to revive him. He died. He was perhaps two weeks old.

The death of the runt is common. It is a natural occurrence and part of the process of selecting the strong to survive. What was the most painful about Max's death was the death of the things he symbolized: an incredibly cute awesome miracle of nature; mankind's triumph over the natural order; the underdog defying the odds and rising to become special and precious; time and love in the forms of thoughts, hopes and cuddles; ultimately, God. There is something sickly ironic and unnatural about dying because your mother accidentally suffocated you and your lungs filled with her milk. He was so small. He was so young. I held him in my palm several times.

Of course, God did not die. What died was a runt who should have died the day he was born. When you remove the symbols, it means very little. the symbols make meaning, which makes us happier and more fulfilled when we're with them, and the more hurt when they unexpectedly leave.

Dwelling in the Dark

Nostalgia and regret keep me awake
Golden street lights shine through a small thicket in the black sky
Water from the tap tastes like bile

If I could perform a massive rewind and fix one mistake
Would I do it?
Would I risk going where the butterfly effect would take me?
What would I lose?
Would it be too much for one decision?
How expensive can a happy memory be?
Guilty memories, regrets, chagrin, are fresh forever
A quick thought can summon pain like new
Happy memories age and fade.
No matter how much effort I put into it I can't relive victory -- only defeat.

Defeat haunts me
It clouds my judgment and renders simple choices impossible
One overshadows them all
If I had the chance, would I undo it
And replace this permanent guilt with fleeting pleasure?
And would Mt. Hood be replaced by Everest?
Would I find myself sitting her again, drinking water and looking at the night thinking about undoing what I had undone?
I don't know
But I wish I hadn't been who I was.