Synaptomys spp.

Here I sit on the living room sofa. We have a living room now, in a wee-teeny house-condo-thingy. Of our own. With a yard, and a window or two, and a closet or two. To my right is my grumpy cat. She is stripy and moody and all cat-like things ending in -y. On the floor is my dog, who is licking Indian food out of a plastic container. I have questions as to what this will do to his digestion, however, we are pushing into the great unknown together on this one. Across the street are my brother, his wife, and their itsy bitsy baby. Down the road are friends; around the corner are trees and fields. Home.

I just arrived home from work. I have a job-job now. Not the kind that I usually have, that involves a tent, or mud. This job came with a desk, and a computer, and a new chair just for me, and other people with desks and computers and chairs. (I don't think anyone else notices the lack of tents and mud, nor do I think they will order any just for me.)

Today at work I learned that the Police have reunited and are going on tour. I also confirmed my suspicion (for, let's see, I started on September 3rd, or about 150 days ago--so I've probably spent about 100 days at work--so for the 100th time) that this job is not for me. Though it is a fine job. A FINE JOB. Better than most. With friendly people, smart people. With a tidy paycheck, and benefits, and all those things that people, even people like me, take jobs to get. Plus it's interesting work. I'm not kidding--this is cool stuff.

But that desk. And that chair. And the commute. I mention the Police because it was they that coined the verse "trapped like lemmings into shiny metal boxes; contestants in a suicidal race." It is probably not a good sign that I am empathizing with the authors of this song. And now, having left my home early this morning at 5:30, and returned 13 hours later at 6:30 (spending more than 3 hours in my car), I am again sitting in front of a computer. But I am home.

20 months ago I was on a boat looking deep into the blueblueblue of an iceberg. A year ago we were only just moving into our wee-teeny-home. 11 Months ago I was living in a cabin with my new puppy in a forest at a nature reserve and working with birds whose feathers are so brilliant I swear they emit light. And 8 months ago I was on an island, living in a lighthouse, surrounded by fog and waves and wings and air. Did you know that wind whistles through bird wings? Or is it that wings whistle through the air?

I think I have to be able to go again now, though I'm afraid to be without the tidy paycheck, and the benefits. I don't think I need to hear the hum of the air conditioner, or the copy machine, or the fax machine, or the clicking sound my computer makes. But those wings--soon it will be a whole year since I last heard them--and I fear doing without the air, and the whistles, and the fog, much more than the absence of a check... It is strange to make decisions based on what you fear less, or more.

I've once again tested the waters here in the world of job-jobs, and will likely have to tread water for a while longer. They still fit just like those scratchy Easter dresses my grandmother used to buy for me. I loved her dearly, but the relief when those little shoes, and little tights, and lacy layers of poof came off was almost desperate. I wore them for her; she always wanted a much girlier girl than me. Somehow here I am again, almost desperate for air, just waiting for everyone to put their cameras away and go home, so that I can pull off the pretty clothes, and breathe.