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The universe puts us together in such interesting ways.
Yesterday, Michael and I spent an afternoon at the lake, then ran into Joseph downtown on his way to call me from a payphone. I invited him to come to the house with us and then to the potluck at Carl and Kathy’s. He agreed and on we went.
At first, all went basically beyond well. Joseph was inquisitive and kind towards Michael, despite experiencing a smidge of discomfort; and the Celtic music concert set a sweetly peaceful stage where Joseph and I could enjoy each other. No, no not like that. We laid together on a blanket and snuck peaks at one another and held hands. Joseph was hesitant to fully engage with me and at the time I attributed it to shyness. Now I know better, or more . . .
We left the event at intermission, saying warm goodbyes to my adopted Godparents. Joseph gave Kathy a kiss on the cheek and I thought, he must love me because I love her and he is showing her love. And again we’re back to yes he does love me but not in the be-with-me kind of way, or at least not in the be-with-only-me kind of way and certainly not in the be-with-me-long-term way at all. . .
Anyway, that night Joe told me I looked so fine in my blue dress he’d have to carry a cane anytime I wore it to ward off other men. Truly, I felt pretty and wanted to enjoy this lovely man in my elevated state, so I suggested we go to the city park for a minute before heading home. There, we delved deep into conversation about “us” and love and commitment.
It’s hard to synthesize and summarize what Joseph suggests to me on said topics. I guess it’s something like this:
He loves me.
He’s loved other women before me just about as much as he believes he could love anybody.
–Apparently, he loves everybody like this.
He’s afraid that I’m falling in love with him.
He’s afraid that I’ll consume his life.
He’s afraid that he’ll hurt me because
He has never wanted to settle down.
He learns most through direct, intimate relating like we’re doing “right now.”
He is 99% sure that he will want to move on from me eventually.
Clearly, in response to this, questions arise:
Can I be with him anyway?
Joe doesn’t really ask; I do, because I realize that I love and enjoy him presently.
Can I stay in the present? Is it worth it? Can I be content within the bounds of romantic love that lacks commitment? He thinks not and thus pushes me away out of fear and guilt. But for me. . .
The answers today are yes and yes and yes. As I went off to work early this morning, I said hello and goodbye to Savannah Belle Bones in the laundry room. I hadn’t seen her in days and it was a genuine joy to rub her loose furry skin between my fingers and listen for the gutteral groan that emerges when she’s really satisfied. “I love you, Bonsey” I murmured into her soft, floppy ears.
Then, as it does nearly every day, the thought of her inevitable death crept into my mind. As humans with lifespans sometimes 100 years long, the short lifetime of a pet can feel needlessly cruel. Yet I realize on some conscious level far removed from my emotions that we are able to learn so very much about love and loss through our relationships with our pets. And there is absolutely no question of whether I would ever take away one day of loving Savannah while she’s with us, even knowing that one day all too soon she won’t be.
It didn’t take much for this thought pattern to shift over to Joseph and considering that our time together might be equally fated for seemingly premature severance. With that connection, it became obvious that if Joseph asked me again, Could I be with him knowing one day soon he will leave? that my answer would again be yes.
Despite that, my ego still says, “No way, uh uh. That’s a shitty arrangement,” because it feels like he’s waiting for something better. Meanwhile, my heart sings, “Yes, go with it! He loves you and he’ll realize it more fully with time,” although my brain knows better–or is it the other way around? And when I listen to my body, I hear something sink deep in my belly and leap high in my heart. . . and I realize I cannot really go back. I’ve already spent months attempting to leave this man for various reasons and all to absolutely no avail.
So, it appears I’m headed onward into the wide open spaces where I can and probably will be hurt more than once at any moment. But I’m choosing this path, right? Or anyway, it’s choosing me. Either way, Joseph certainly wouldn’t be to blame.
I now release all attachment to feeling victimized and abused.
I now affirm that I can let go of loved ones.
I now affirm that I cooperate with grace.
I now affirm that I cooperate with grace.
One of the biggest benefits I reaped from the REAL program was the acknowledgement of “small successes.” The idea is relatively simple and probably nothing you’ve not heard before, but the phrasing was such that this time it sank in. Or, I suppose I was ready to hear it.
Small successes were not explicitly defined during the workshop, but what I gathered from the stories and conversations about them, a small success is any moment or event in your life during which you feel wholly whole (or centered, calm, joyful, in the flow; you get the idea. . .). The purpose of identifying small successes was primarily so we could incorporate them into our individual compasses (a concept I hope to revisit with ya’ll at some point). It was also (this is likely the part that may sound familiar) to shift one’s focus from problems or conditions to what is right with life.
See, not so unique of a concept, huh? Yet I have embraced it and each day find myself saying outloud, “A small success!” This has a whole slew of positive effects on my life. Recognizing small successes removes pressure to always do and become more, more, more. It eases doubt and worry. It can be reassuring in the sense that I am usually able to note some progress and growth, no matter how minute. It can also make big scary deals seem littler.
For example, today I met with my therapist, Joan, for the first time in over a year. We have begun working on some of the deeper, thornier issues in my life—things that for the most part I have gotten very good at compartmentalizing and ignoring.
Although our meeting went well and I have been taking good care of myself since, it can be overwhelming to think back to the topics we covered, to consider where I am and where I’ll end up. But you see, rather than struggle with overwhelm, I can choose to consider the small successes.
I took myself to see Joan in the first place. Small success! I took a walk and sat cross legged in a field facing Mount Shasta for an hour after our session, therefore taking another step towards my own healing. Another small success. For a trickier situation to assess: I bought myself a big mug of hot cocoa and a hunk of pumpkin pecan streusel bread. Although this may appear to be an unhealthy choice, I still vote “small success” because I gave myself a little gift of comfort food (yes, and sugar).
In the Enneagram book most recently gifted to me from Carl and Kathy, there is a description of Twos at a healthy level that says, “Healthy Twos let go of the belief that they are not allowed to care for themselves. Thus they can own their feelings and needs and are free to love others without expectations.”
I would say the three examples of today’s small successes that I gave you would put me (for a moment, however brief) into the category of Healthy Twos. And you know what that means. . . another small success. May the trend continue.
I’m typing at the Snowcrest Internet Cafe today because the internet is still down at our house. If only they’d had broadband in the park, I would have stayed there to blog after the delectable picnic lunch Mom, Dad and I shared.
As usual, I didn’t know what would drip out of my fingers onto the keys once I sat down to type on this particular Tuesday. Stumped, I said to my folks in the car on the way here, “If I’m not careful, all I’ll write about is having my period and being hormonal.” Mom laughed and told me that would make a good opening line. It probably would have, better than the in between line I just used it as . . . especially because new inspiration struck pretty immediately after I got here, making that whole awkward topic rather irrelevant . . .
(Or did it?) When I arrived, I paid for my coffee and made my way back to the restroom. Snowcrest Internet Cafe is located right in the middle of main street and like many of the businesses in the area, it shares a hallway, bathroom and additional entrances with some neighboring shops.
When I exited the cafe proper and entered the shared hallway, I was suddenly struck by the funky details of it. Directly across from the cafe door is a hair salon I can’t imagine anyone ever remembering exists–other than the bathroom-using Snowcrest customers, that is, who are gifted with a full view of the salon’s interior thanks to indoor windows covering the whole north wall. A woman with dye smeared across her forehead smiled at me quirkily from the hairdresser’s chair as I entered the hall.
As for the hallway itself, green shag carpet adorns the floor with a decorative drip stain running the entire length of it. Plywood shelves collapsing under the weight of Highlights and hair magazines line the multicolored sponge-painted wall opposite the Mane Event. No, that’s not a dog grooming business. It’s the salon I mentioned previously . . .
I felt like I was in some foreign town as I pushed the door open to the florescent lighted bathroom; and that’s when I encountered a new twist on the idea of wherever you go, there you are.
I’m somebody who loves to travel, partially because I like to experience little nooks and crannies of faraway places. What I’m not sure I realized until this afternoon is that there are lots of curious corners even this town of 5,000 I’ve spent most of my life living in. Not to mention the slew (I use the word loosely) of opportunities to study psychology, practice my Spanish and (you know I have to say it) even to dance salsa!
Don’t get me wrong, I am by no means implying that traveling or moving elsewhere at certain times in life is not necessary. Not even close. Instead, I’m exploring my options as I find myself still living in three-stoplight Mt. Shasta. I’m looking to give life a little flair, or to acknowledge the flair that’s already there. As it turns out, it’s not all that hard to do. And I didn’t even have to go into describing all the ecstactic dancing I did last night. Maybe tomorrow.
Halloween turned out to be great fun, of course–although I did end up sneaking away to the privacy of my parents’ home to avoid the trick or treaters I wasn’t prepared for.
At around 8 o’clock my friend Natalie came over to curl my hair and help me take the final step into becoming Curly Top (no one recognized me in anyway and one person’s response to my ‘costume’ was, “You just look like a cuter version of Tessa.” Way to go, me!). Two hours, many ringlets and a cardboard lollypop later, Space Cat and Curly Top exited the premises. Destination: the Wayside Bar and Grill.
At the Wayside I enjoyed one Maker’s Mark whiskey on the rocks (Natalie’s choice) and a good six shimmying songs on the dance floor. I’ve noticed that salsa seems to flavor all my steps these days. I’d probably sway my hips all over the place even to electronica. But despite my ability to tune out leering goblins and other less creatively dressed men and to season hip hop with salsa, the party was not the fun filled environment I had been hoping for.
So, I ventured on to a party at the Coopers. The Coopers are a family of about eight children. Sophie, Chloe, CeeCee, Will, younger boy whose name I can’t remember–that’s five and I know I’m forgetting a few . . . Anyway, they’re a very eclectic and conscious crowd with an amazing old house right downtown (and directly across the street from Berryvale, as a matter of fact); and their party was the talk of the town.
And with good reason. The Coopers had held a decorating party on Thursday evening during which what was most likely a den area had been transformed into a strobe-lit, cobwebed cocktail lounge. When I arrived, a group of people stood chatting out in the cool autumn air and absorbing the glow of the fire from the pit nearby. Inside, a bar, snack tables and couches framed a dance floor pulsating with the beats of one of two hired DJs. I was first greeted with the festive scene, then by the shocked faces of three old friends.
I don’t fully understand the charade, but whenever a certain group of friends from high school and I reunite, there is a whole lot of show and surprise. Then, of course, the hugging. Oh. And for the record, these are male friends.
After allowing an appropriate period of time for reconciliation, I worked my way onto the dance floor and slid right into the groove. The boys danced along with and without me. Everyone seemed to be having a smashing good time.
I stayed until just before 3 a.m., when one friend, Clifford asked for a ride home. Seeing his tired eyes and watching him wilt before me, I gave Cliff the ride gladly, grateful for a chance to put my most recent EnneaThought for the Day into action: Today, try this recommendation: If you develop your great capacity to care about others, you will never go far wrong—in fact, you will do a great deal of good in life.
On our way to his house, the topic of music came up. “Do you play the guitar?” Cliff asked me.
“Yeah! I can actually say now that, yes, I do.” I smiled.
“Me too!” said Cliff with enthusiasm. He proceeded to tell me about a song he had written for his mom for Mother’s Day, then asked if I wanted to come inside and hear it.
For any of you who are thinking, “There she is again in the middle of the night with a strange man who is about to get her all alone inside his empty house!” (or bus, as the case may be), it wasn’t like that. I promise.
We went inside and he shared his song and I shared my songs and he shared another one and I shared my blog. And it was there that I got the idea for this post, which it has taken all this time to really get to . . . :
I’ve been noticing that the more I open up my gifts to the world–music, writing, laughter, love–the more other people respond by opening theirs. In the past year I have been privileged enough to hear numerous original songs–some debuts to the audience of one, see countless works of original art, be danced all across smooth floors and be graced by conversation after conversation steeped in original thought.
People are so cool when you open up and get to know them. And I think it’s in doing both–the opening and the getting . . . –that the true riches spill forth.
Blessings and Thank You’s all around. Peace, ya’ll.
It has come to my attention that having a focused intention for my blog would behoove us all greatly. Today I’d like to write about just that.
I’ll start at the beginning (even if to say so is redundant). My initial inspiration for starting a blog was both special and rather unoriginal. I decided to treat myself to the luxury of a matinée one late summer afternoon. So I took a quiet walk down to Mt Shasta Cinemas and bought myself a ticket for Julie and Julia.
For the most part, I enjoyed the movie; but there was also this whiney little voice inside of me (probably my ET4 heart point, otherwise known as a “soul child”) that was actually quite jealous of Julie and Julia alike. “Why should Julie get to do what she loves and then have a book published and a bit fat feature film made starring Meryl Streep?” it demanded. “When will I be loved?”
Lurking there, just behind the jealousy and whinging, was also sadness and a feeling of disconnect from my own path. It had been more than a year since graduating from Naropa, yet still I was “transitioning and integrating” (my words, spoken so many times) and not feeling like I had made any real progress. Somehow, watching Julie and Julia up on that screen touched this tender area of my being and as the credits rolled at the end of the film, I stayed in my seat and wept. (I’m laughing now. I knew there was a reason I named this blog Carry Kleenex, Carry On).
As I walked home, the urge to create a blog of my own crept up inside of me and gradually grew. What’s amazing is that it didn’t dwindle. I wrote my first blog within a week of seeing the movie and the love affair hasn’t fizzled yet. Yes, it’s only been a month, but a month is a long time to do something consistently, first of all, and secondly, I’ve heard that it takes 30 days to establish any habit, good or bad. Given that, consider Cocoa (:acronym CKCO shortened and cute-end) established!
When I actually sat down to write my first post, it all seemed to flow naturally. I came up with the topic and title relatively easily, thanks to a little help from my mom. I even think my initial intention was fairly clear from the start, with the original subtitle: An attempt to redirect my musings to an audience that’s interested. (I’ve since altered that heading slightly, changing “attempt” to “intent” because of the importance I believe the concept of intention to bear; I’ll elaborate on both in a minute).
I am a person who analyzes life and my own behavior on a regular basis. While I find such a quality endearing, it’s easy for me to make the leap and realize that such is not likely the case for every person I encounter. But, I thought, there must be somebody out there who would enjoy and perhaps even benefit from hearing my thoughts on life. So I decided to share them, realizing I might also get some of that particular energy out of my system and into an environment where it would at least have the potential to thrive.
My hope was not so much to entertain or enlighten as to simply offer my thoughts and myself and allow them the chance to be received. I also realized, on some level, that by writing things down I would have an opportunity to get to know Tessa better. I don’t know if it sounds weird that I needed to get to know me, but I honestly did and I do . . .
The point is that, yes, I am writing this blog for people to read it; but my primary intention remains to stay focused on Spirit, both mine and the great one and to see what pours forth. This becomes increasingly challenging as hits to the site and comments on it increase–and not just comments, but comments, filled with integrity and heart. Seeing such things makes it really tempting to try and lure more loveliness into the light, but I realize that the reason this whole process is actually working at all is because I’m not doing it for anyone else. I think that’s an important thing to remember for anyone following a passion, that if you’re not doing it to fulfill you, you probably won’t be fulfilled.
In any case, the reason I changed the word “attempt” to “intent” was to further focus the direction of this offering of mine. I believe in the power of the spoken (or in this case, written) word and I felt that by using the word “attempt,” I was weakening my . . . I hesitate to say “resolve” because to me that feels rigid and closed. So, I was weakening the strength of my . . . well, intention to make a genuine and positive change in my life and to pursue a passion.
Writing daily and opening myself wider than I have been to a even broader range of observation has truly enhanced my life and increased my happiness. The birth of this blog was a genuinely “beautiful dawn.”
I encourage you to listen to the sweet and profound song entitled as such and to pay attention to the lyrics as you do so. I’ve been playing it on my guitar and singing along, and it brings me joy that I want to share. I hope you’ll be inspired.
Learning how to cry is the hardest part
There’s only one way to mend a broken heart.
~Beautiful Dawn, The Wailin Jenny’s
Again, my life is so, so rich. I’m lying down on a couch wrapped in an afghan my grandmother crocheted (that word is spelled so weirdly. How can anyone read it and not think crotch-e-ted?) with the Yankees and Angels dueling it out in the background. Dad and I just finished a scrumptious Italian meal of red wine, mixed green salad, spicy sausage, rotini and homemade spaghetti sauce ripe with sauteed mushrooms, bell peppers and tomatoes from our garden. It doesn’t get much better; and I’m beginning to believe that yes, it can always be this good.
Today was another exceptionally full and busy day. I had my first official day in the deli at Berryvale. Despite that no one has yet to mention anything about me doing any baking (which is what I thought I was hired for), I still enjoyed myself immensely. I spent the morning smiling, flirting, and waiting on customers, pushing buttons, serving wraps, filling coffee and did I mention? Smiling.
After Berryvale, I moved on to work a shift at the SAC gallery. That I followed up with a short jaunt (it’s hardly a jaunt; the door to the kitchen is in the gallery!) to the Village Books bakery where I prepared (and sampled; mmm) ganache for topping trays of brownies. If you’ve not yet had ganache, you ought to. It’s semi-sweet dark chocolate melted into heavy cream. It is so sinful and delicious, and makes me think of Chocolat every time. . .
When I eventually got home, I was tired and rather displaced. I tried to collapse into a nap, but was still buzzing from the day’s activity. So I went for a walk.
It was divine. Bonsey (i.e. Savannah Belle Bones, the best dog in the world) went with me, past the high school, through Shastice park and onto a Disc Golf course. The course is actually just a lovely trail that wends through the woods with the occasional wire goal along the way. It’s lined with deciduous trees and thimbleberry bushes that turn golden in autumn, so the richness of fall color is there on all levels. Tonight we were out at sunset and due to the alpenglow, the pink hue streaked 360 degrees of the sky.
The highlight of the outing occurred when I happened upon the most luscious of smells in the middle of the trail. Suddenly, it was as though I’d walked into a grove of honeycomb. A sweet, subtle scent permeated the air. I inhaled deeply and raised my arms to the sky. I inhaled again and again and again and sighed in between.
The richness of life is available in every breath. Every breath is a chance for glory, for grace. I challenge you: take it.
A day to remember, in reverse:
I’m currently propped up in bed wearing a seafoam green flannel nightshirt with monkey’s all over it that my mother sewed for me. Zoe, the feistier of my two cats, is resting sweetly atop my outstretched legs. I’m drinking red wine and just finished relishing a delicious dark chocolate covered macadamia nut straight from Hawaii (hand-delivered to me by Carl and Kathy). In the background, Pink’s “Please Don’t Leave Me” is on repeat; it’s been stuck in my head since I worked out at Curves (“For Women”) earlier this evening.
I started going to Curves when I was 16 and still in high school. I remember being so impressed and happy with the program that I wanted to write articles in favor of it. These days I’m not so enthusiastic about it–although I suppose I am about just about everything else. Actually, as I hopped around on one of the Curves recovery boards today a gal whose seen me there a time or two before said, “Geez, you have too much energy all the time!” Thankfully I’ve learned, sort of, not to take things like that too personally. . .
Prior to going to Curves, I visited with my new friend Coreena at the SAC gallery. She relieved me at 1 p.m. as the coop member on duty for the afternoon and I came back around 4 to help her finish up the day. Together we looked at photos of her family’s holiday hideaway, “Hikers Rest,” on the big island of Hawaii. Corree had a c.d. playing in the background, “Have you heard of Rob Sexsmith?” she asked me.
“No. He’s good?” I replied.
“Oh, yeah! Plus he has ‘sex’ in his name.”
“And smith! As in ‘wordsmith.’”
“Or ‘locksmith. . .’”
I let Coree look through the clothes of mine the local consignment store had just rejected. “They didn’t take this!?” She asked, bewildered, as she tried on a pale blue corduroy jacket. The jacket was a hand-me-down from a Bostonian friend of mine, seasonally appropriate, cute and in good condition. I couldn’t see the problem either, but to each their own.
Shopping at Trading Places became a favorite pastime this summer while my big brother Tyler and Allison were in town planning their wedding. Neither my new sister-in-law Alli nor I are big shoppers, but somehow we created one fabulously fun experience after another at the little store. No doubt it was largely the influence of TLC’s What Not to Wear. Passing comments like, “Stacey and Clinton would NOT approve” back and forth resulted in each trip becoming highly entertaining. It also made it easier to provide–and receive–honest opinions about potentially poor choices in clothing.
I like to think Alli, Stacey and Clinton would all approve of what I came out with today: a gray Daisy Fuentes sweater-dress, a melon cardigan and a pair of black ballet flats, all for $17.50–and I didn’t pay a penny because I had $26 credit for clothing I brought in previously! Consignment, I tell you, is the shit! Please pardon my Français.
Prior to shopping came work at the gallery, and just before that I met for a most inspirational cup of coffee with a longtime family friend, Nathan. Being at similar places in life, we discussed the pros and cons and proper timing of grad school, travel, and just enjoying our little hometown. I tried to refrain from imparting any unprecedented wisdom to him, but Nathan seemed to welcome it. So I shared how when I finally slowed down and began to be present in my parents’ house in this teeny town of Mt. Shasta, life came to meet me, instead of the other way around. I explained that when I finally stopped “should-ing” all over myself, my passions just burbled up to the surface. It’s beautiful, really, and I wish the same for everybody . . .
As our morning together drew to a close, Nathan and I suddenly touched upon an idea to collaborate with many of the other motivated, creative and inspirational young people in town. Now, it looks like all the lovelies I’ve been spending time with–Coree, Joe, Nikolas, Royce, Nathan, and others–may all get to come together and create something beautiful.
Time will tell; and so will I. Stay tuned.
New blog goal: To get my writing time down to 30 minutes or less for nights when I’m either exhausted or in danger of it in the morning.
Start time tonight? 9:46 p.m. Bedtime last night? 3:45 a.m. Blog time remaining? 29 minutes and counting. . .
Last night was dance night again, hallelujah! In celebration (and recovery) today, I suggested to Mom that we rent either the original Dirty Dancing, the remake: Havana Nights, or Shall We Dance.
She and I walked to the video store, Mom in a t-shirt and me decked out for snow in a hat, sweatshirt and wrist-warmers. We oohed and ahhed at the turning leaves; golds and yellows, pinks and reds and brilliant oranges. We tried collectively to remember what it is that affects the vibrancy of the colors each fall and got as far as “I think it has something to do with an early frost. . .”
With Savannah in tow we passed by Berryvale’s glass doors. “You might be working there soon!” said Mom. Royce waved from inside.
Shortly thereafter we entered Couch Critics (otherwise known as “Potatoes”) to a chorus of barking dogs leaping against the inside of a white truck parked out front. Mom whispered to me, “There’s that smell in here again! Patchouli and body odor and weeds!” I told her she would like today’s previous blog.
Perusing the selection, of the movies I’d mentioned we came across “Shall We Dance” first; but with one look at Richard Gere’s smirk and silver hair and then J-Lo (no further explanation necessary) we put it down and moved quickly on to rent Havana Nights.
Although the film was mediocre as anticipated (contrary to the review on the cover, it did not hold a battery-operated candle to the original), we had fun ogling the young Latino lead, Javier; and I got lost in a daydream of the next time I will get to go dancing again.
The only drawback is that now, after watching Javier and Katie jive and gyrate amidst clumps of sweaty Cubanos, my stakes for ultimate dancing satisfaction are getting higher. Rick and Peggy’s Open Floor dance classes are splendid, sure, but how can they compare to that Cubano calor? (translation: heat).
I guess for now, at the ripe young age of 23 and fresh out of recovery (from heartbreak, that is), hormones are ruling the scene and I’m liking the looks of that Dirty Dancing. Now, if only I can find myself a partner with passion, moves, and a back like Patrick Swayze (bless his soul!), I’ll be on my own way to Heaven.
It’s 10:14 and I even had time to edit! Thank you and good night.
Today’s blogging challenge is going to be to not focus so much on what somebody else might want to read as on what I want to write. This is actually the challenge of everyday, paired with the fact that as an image type I am A) concerned with keeping up a good rapport with my audience and B) not always sure of what I actually desire, being conditioned as I am to tuning into the needs of others . . .
It was Tessa I tuned into, though, when I decided to go ahead and tell my Arts Council boss I was applying for a job in Santa Barbara. Everyone around me was saying, “In this economy? Are you crazy? You can’t just go around telling your employer that you’re looking for other work. It’s not smart.”
Despite it, my conscience and I were adamant about being honest. If nothing else, lying just isn’t worth the trouble and energy! So, I told Lauri the whole truth: a fantastic opportunity had come up, I was driving to SB to pursue it; I might be leaving the Council soon but promise to give plenty of notice if I do. Of course, as you may already know, I didn’t get the job and I did receive my two weeks notice a few days ago.
So, everyone was right, huh. By looking out for the other guy and not for myself, I got the short end of the stick. Lesson learned! Or was it . . .
The very day I was given my notice (I wish I could just type “fired;” it’s so much more succinct) my friend Royce came by to visit and told me they might be looking for bakers at Berryvale.
Getting its name from one of Mt. Shasta City’s prior christenings, Berryvale is a local alternative grocery store with a culture all its own. It smells of herbs and patchuli, and more often than not there are small clumps of people (who also smell like herbs and patchuli, and sometimes herb) gathered in it’s vicinity. Inside, although you’ll almost certainly encounter dreadlocks, you’re equally likely to find logo-t’s and bike shorts. If there is such a thing as an intentional grocery store, Berryvale is it. They even provide metal rings for looping leashes and a stationary bowl of water out front for dogs waiting while their people shop.
Royce has worked at “Berry” for about a year now. He’s a checker, re-stocker and occasional dishwasher. He’s also a schmoozer, and the people there love him. So, when they needed a baker some months ago and he gave me a wholehearted recommendation, it seemed I was a shoe in.
As fate had it, I slowly let the Berryvale ball drop and got lined up with work at the Siskiyou Arts Council. Now here we are, six months later with Berryvale needing bakers and me needing a job. . .
Hearing the news, I recognized this as an opportunity to pick up the ball I had dropped in April and grip it tightly. I promised myself I would be diligent about returning to Berryvale on a regular basis until they hired me.
I made my first trip in on Thursday morning. The head baker Emily wasn’t there that day, but an Art History teacher of mine was (do you like the irony? The Arts Council, for me, History!) and he sent a whole new ball rolling down the aisle of my imagination. But that’s a story for another day.
I returned to Berryvale on Friday, this time catching Emily in the back room. I was prepared to go into great detail about my passion for baking and desire to join the Berryvale team. But, thanks to my loyal friend Royce, she began talking about scheduling and training before I hardly had a chance to say word!
One of the owners joined our conversation halfway through it. “This is Tessa!” Emily said, introducing me. Belinda nodded and handed me an application. “Just fill out the basics,” she suggested, “name, phone number, etc . . . You can include your previous employer if you want, but don’t worry about phone numbers there. I won’t be calling anyone.” And she disappeared into the back.
I floated out of the store, giving Royce a bear hug and a thank you on the way out. . .
If this experience hasn’t convinced me to follow my thread of truth and have faith, I don’t know what will.
As Mom would say, it’s “D.R.O!”
D.R.O.: an acronym meaning Divine Right Order.
I’m back at home where internet comes easy and now I’m struggling to blog. Then again, starting up is usually a challenge for me; and at least today I have my topic all cut out . . .
As you know, I am currently working as the Gallery Manager/Executive Assistant at the Siskiyou Arts Council (“Siskiyou” being the county I live in). I got the job through a boyfriend a couple of months ago when he decided to move to Michigan without me (ohh, the drama). It seemed like a good idea at the time, my working there, and it has been a great experience in many ways . . .
SAC’s gallery is located on a corner of Main Street on the north side of town. It’s right next door to what locals call “the Cowboy Gallery;” and particularly in contrast to its rugged neighbor, our gallery is a gleaming array of Pergo wood floors, hanging lights and a nice selection of works by local artists from around the county. The SAC gallery is also one of very few places in town a girl can wear heels without receiving weird looks (you’re better off in Crocs or Birks around here). That said, one reason I’ve enjoyed working for the Siskiyou Arts Council has been the opportunity to put my newly found fashion skills–thanks to What Not to Wear–to good use. What a perk!
The job has also been fab’ in that it’s pushed me past various edges of my comfort zone. Mainly, I’ve been forced to make phone calls. For some reason, although I am relatively comfortable with people, making phone calls has always made me feel kind of nervous and stupid. Half of the time after I hang up I make a gagging face and mutter the last few words I spoke during the call outloud, sure I’ve just made some kind of fool of myself (maybe a post on confidence should be next in line).
Working for SAC, I’ve also had exposure to the inner-workings of an Non Profit Organization, worked in close proximity to artists and their art and been truly welcomed into the loving arms of this little community as I upkeep one of Mt. Shasta’s finest storefronts.
Have you wondered why I keep talking in past tense?
Some two months ago a great opportunity came up to apply for a friend’s old job in Santa Barbara. As I worked out the logistics of driving down to interview mere days before my big (and only) brother’s wedding, I had to consider how I would handle the situation with my current employer. Should I tell them why I need time off? Do I keep it hush-hush?
Being a 2 on the enneagram and being me, I opted to be 112% forthright and considerate. I not only told my boss where I was going and why, but went so far as to add (after not getting the job), “I only expect you to be as committed to me as I am to you. . .”
My honesty is both a blessing and a curse, so it seems. Today, my boss Lauri politely informed me, “Consider this your two weeks’ notice.”
Oh . . .
I can’t say I didn’t see it coming. In fact, I even blogged about seeing it come. Still, I remained in minor shock for some time after receiving the news. Post conversation, I spent the afternoon on the mindless task of archiving newspaper clippings mentioning SAC. The day was as rainy as they come. Eventually, I slumped to the floor, wrapped myself around my dog Savannah Belle Bones and cried–for approximately seven minutes.
Two minutes after that, an Austrian woman came into the gallery and . . . I sold her a painting! Now, that’s what I’m talking about when I say carry kleenex and carry on!
On that note: I’ll keep you posted. And thanks for listening.
