transitions::bad humor

This truck is now parked in a garage in the NE quad of Portland. The burgundy Ford (purchased for $600 four years ago) traversed the lower crescent of the states carrying a sewing cabinet that belonged to my grandmother, a fancy juicer, a treasured collection of cookbooks, some clothes, and ::GASP:: an entire trunk of journals and other words that found their letters on paper. These items, vehicle and driver arrived in Portland without incident three months ago. And now, it's time to do it all over again. Except this time there will be four passengers (two of them canines) and an endless amount of time.

I think I would enjoy this transition more if it weren't so overdue. I spend most of my time behind a desk in a bookstore in the belly of a vast nonprofit that is so extremely effected by whatever it is that we are supposed to believe in wrong with the economy that the entire building in SILENT. A collective corporate inhale, belt tightening and all, and it seems that no one wants fresh air - just static and waiting. I usually feel like this poor guy. . .

It seems I've stuck my head too far into the pickle jar and I'm perplexed, humbled by the predicament I have gotten myself into. The bear in the picture was shot to be freed from her misery and this bear needs to find a more promising solution! At least I have better odds!

Truly, my solution is simple. I'll quit the silent but festering job that is blocking my senses, and I'm so glad. I have a hand full of months left of my 20's and I plan to use them wisely. Another exchange of fool-hardy optimism for a chance at something a bit better - and if not better, at least different.

But I'll tell you something you already know. This transition stuff. . .well, I think I'm learning that it helps to stay nimble, or suffer the unfavorable task of scraping rust from the parts that were mobile.

-Emily