Pick Me! I Have A Great Personality!

Many years ago, a friend shared with me that, though she’d been in the same position for over a decade, she regularly changed jobs in her mind. Though this friend really loved her job, every few years she’d feel frustrated or unstimulated or trapped. 

“I go through the whole process,” she explained to me one afternoon, “I look for jobs that are interesting to me, I apply, I interview.” And then, she explained, even when she is offered a new position, she realizes she doesn’t want the new job.

“It’s like entering a different reality for a little bit of time,” my friend explained. It made total sense to me. This process of redirecting her path, even just theoretically, helped my friend to see that she actually liked the path she was on. Eventually my friend did leave her job. She left, not because she found a new job, but because she wanted to start a business of her own. 

I have shared my friend’s strategic advice with many people over the years and I’m the process of doing it myself. My job is okay. Some days it’s great. Other days it is incredibly frustrating, and often, it’s just neutral. I’ve been applying for other positions, jobs that spark my interest.

I search multiple sites and follow the crumbs of curiosity that are activated by the job descriptions I read. Some mornings I can spend hours following different rabbit holes through websites, staff pages, testimonials. Every so often, I apply for a position.

This involves redrafting my resume and cover letter to fit the position. As I reread my resume, I’ll remember some training I did that might appeal to the hiring committee or change verbiage to fit the specific activities outlined in the position description. 

Occasionally, I get an interview. Preparing for the interview takes me further down an imaginary path. I answer questions in my head that I might be asked. I relive my proudest work moments and try to articulate my greatest professional weaknesses. I make notes, outlining my strengths and experience in different areas. I visualize myself doing the job at hand.

This whole process excites and energizes me. I have drafts upon drafts of resumes and cover letters in my Google drive. At this point, I know which resumes are the best to tweak for specific positions and I can spit out a new one in just minutes. 

The process helps. As I imagine myself doing something else, I have gratitude for my current job. I can see the bright spots, and the dark ones feel lighter because I’ve opened the window to other possibilities. 

On days when my current position feels really unbearable, I wish it was easier to just slip into something different, like I slip into my sweatpants after a long day in jeans. I wish for an everyday job that fits me more comfortably than the one I am in now.

I start the process again — look at the job sites, find a post that I can fantasize about, redo the resume and cover letter, send it in. I experience that familiar release, like a deep breath, while seeing a shooting star. For a moment, I am relaxed and delighted. 

But I have to admit, it’s tiring, putting myself out there and waiting to see if me on paper sounds good to the review team. Some days I feel like it would be more effective to just sit in the lobby of my dream job and say to people as they walk by, “Pick me. I have a wonderful personality. We could do great things together.”

And I believe this. I’m a quick learner. I’m creative, energetic, and a hard worker. Sadly, it doesn’t work this way. At 54 I’m no spring chicken. Bosses decades younger see the year of my college graduation is before they were even born. I imagine them dismissing me out of hand, their subconscious (and their conscious) telling them, “she’s too old.”

At 54 I’m also a jelly bean jar full of experience. I’ve had multiple careers and relationships. I’ve raised a child, been through loss, terrible presidents and world events. And, I want to tell this vast hiring committee in the ether, “I have a really great personality. We’d have a blast working together.”

My friend was right. Fantasizing about a new position and going through the steps to get there is a useful tool for finding gratitude in the job I have. It’s a helpful exercise to review my resume and regularly acknowledge and recognize the work I’ve done and the skills I’ve built over my three decades in the professional realm.

But it’s also hard. Applying for a new position in this shiny new world of younger people makes me feel kind of pathetic. I feel like Mel Brooks in a tuxedo standing under a marquee with his name, fancy pink light bulbs flashing as he shouts into a paper bullhorn what a great show he’s got going. Next to Mel is a young woman behind a sleek glass facade, casually sitting in an Eames lounge chair, laptop balancing on one side, latte on the other, comfortably waiting, knowing that she’s the chosen one.

I know the job I have now isn’t one I want. I know that I’ll leave at some point. The stars will align and the right job with the right team at the right time will come together. I’ll find a match. I’ll go through the steps again and again until I get there. I see the value in this. I really do. But honestly, I wish someone would just hire me for my great personality.

Saturn Return: She's Baaaaack

A few weeks ago at a family gathering my niece’s boyfriend told me it was his birthday. “I’m turning 27,” he said.

“Ooooh, 27,” I replied, “you’re entering your Saturn return.” He and my niece both raised their eyebrows as if to ask me what that the hell I’m talking about.

I couldn’t remember the details other than it’s the first big life change, the first big trip around the galaxy where major things happen in one’s life. Already known as the woo-woo west coast aunt, my niece and her boyfriend accepted this with a nod and went to have a beer outside.

Yesterday I was talking to a work mate, explaining that, even if we weren’t talking about her specific work, she should feel welcome to contribute to conversations about other projects at staff meetings. “I think it’s a measure of my age,” she said, “I feel so much younger than the rest of the team. I’m only 26. Hey, doesn’t that mean I’m almost in my Saturn return?”

“And what does that even mean? Saturn return?,” my co-worker asked me. Again, I tried to explain. I was struck by the fact that this was the second time in two weeks that Saturn return has come up in conversation. I tried to remember where I was and what I was doing when I was 27. And as I thought about that I realized that right now I am double-27!

I am in my second Saturn return. Holy Shit and what a relief. When I finished my meeting I got online and started doing some Saturn return research. What I learned is that, in horoscopic astrology, a Saturn return is an astrological transit that occurs when the planet Saturn returns to the same ecliptic longitude that it occupied at the moment of a person’s birth.(https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saturn_return)

With the first Saturn return, usually occurring between the ages of 27–31, a person leaves youth behind and enters adulthood. When I was 27 I bought my first house. I had my first real job. I made adult decisions. For me the first Saturn return fit my stage in life so maybe I’m on track for some kind of middle age maturing now.

With the second Saturn return, 54–62, and then the third and probably the last at 81–85, one enters wise old age. I’m 54 now so I am passing through my second astrological transit; I’m leaving behind my last adulthood.

For the last month I’ve been on a journey trying to figure out what is the perfect job for me. In many ways it feels like I’m starting over. Now that I recognize that I’m in my second Saturn return, I see that I’m being offered an invitation to make some decisions about who I want to be in this second iteration of myself. A lover of all things ritualistic, I am thrilled to have this second Saturn return to grasp onto, to help me frame and explain what I am going through these days.

I read more about the second Saturn return specifically. This is a time to be a mentor and share wisdom. It is a time to prepare for our children to leave home. In this second Saturn return we might be thinking about retirement and/or dreams we’ve had for our lives that we haven’t done and we still hope to do.

The astrological experts says that in the first Saturn return it is a time to take responsibility, to stay the course on your path when things get hard. The first Saturn return is when we push our limits to grow and take full accountability for our lives. Where do we want to go? What do we want to do? This is the time when we stop feeling like kids.

It helps me to take those first return invitations into my second Saturn return. Part of what’s motivating me to make a professional transition is the feeling that I’m just going through the motions at work. I’m not engaged and committed in a way that feels inspiring or enlivening.

I have stability that I didn’t have when I was 27. Those everyday adult tasks we reckon with in the first Saturn return are second nature to me now, but I have room to grow in other areas, limits to expand into. And, just like it was 27 years ago, it’s hard, a little bit scary, and exciting at the same time.

I think about my niece and her boyfriend, about my co-worker. I wouldn’t want to go back there and live their lives, but I do want to live the feeling of possibility that inhabits that stage of life and carry it into this second Saturn return that I am entering now.

Maybe my second return will come in the form a new job. Maybe I’ll feel it in a few months when my daughter goes off to college and I have a new sense of independence. Maybe it will come as a surprise. The Saturn return, whether it is the first one or the second or even the third, is not so much about what comes out of that period, but the questions we ask as we as we enter it and while we’re in it. What do I want to do? Who do I want to become? What do I want to leave behind? What do I hope to discover? It’s about leaning into the possibilities for change and growth, in whatever form they come.

Singing for Sanity

My daughter’s room is in the basement of our house and our room is on the second floor. In the mornings, we all meet in the middle to start our days. Now that my daughter is almost done with high school she’s living with unabashed senioritis and pretty much makes her own schedule in the mornings, often skipping first period. 

At first I worried about my daughter’s loosey-goosey attitude towards first period, but she’s gotten into college, she’s getting good grades, she goes to work, and she seems to be handling her business, so I’ve stopped myself from going down to wake her up and get her started. Sometimes when I’m sitting in the kitchen doing Wordle before my day starts I’ll hear my daughter singing in the basement.

My daughter has always been musical. As a kid she hummed constantly, unconsciously. I can still hear her little tunes in my head — hmmm — mmm — ummm — ummm — mmmmh — hmmmm. As my daughter got older she started playing guitar and piano. She formed her own musical tastes, often playing her favorite songs on the piano and singing along. 

Some days my daughter is deeply distant with me, practicing the separation that is coming soon when she heads off to college. Though I know intellectually that this is normal, I can’t help by feel hurt and worried. When I don’t know what’s going on with my daughter, when she won’t talk to me, I assume the worst. I imagine horrible things happening in the background of her life, after-school-special travesties. I visualize the terrible truth coming out one day — that she’s being sex trafficked or taking fentanyl — and I’m the last to know.

But then I hear my daughter singing in the basement. Often it starts in the shower and continues as she gets dressed and ready for school. When it starts my partner and I always look at each other and smile. There she is. Everything is okay. She’s still here. She’s still herself. 

Sometimes my daughter comes home from school or work and, before she does anything else, she plops down at the piano and starts to sing. I know then to leave her alone. She’s self-soothing in some way, like she used to do with humming when she was little. 

A few days ago my daughter told me that she loves to go running really early in the morning because she can sing and not worry about anyone hearing her. She often drives herself places instead of going with others because she wants to have the time to sing in the car. 

One of my daughter’s supplemental college essays was about singing, starting when we joined family choir when she was five years old. She wrote about the joy she felt singing, the connection, the community. It was beautiful and I learned something about what singing has meant, what it means to her. 

A few times this year my daughter expressed concern about where she will sing next year. “Mom, next year I won’t have my own bathroom, I won’t have a piano, I won’t have a car. Where will I sing?”

“Join choir,” I say, and, thinking of our shared love for Pitch Perfect, “or an A capella group!!!” 

Moving away from home and going to college is a big deal. There’s lots to manage and finding a way to sing is likely to get lost in the shuffle of figuring out how to eat right, do laundry, and get to class on time. I know that my advice has a limited place in my daughter’s life right now — I suggest north and she heads south — so nagging her about keeping singing in her life is something I have to keep in my own head for now.

But I wonder as I listen to my daughter singing in the basement right now, hearing the joy that comes from her heart, “when she leaves home will she find a place to sing?” And what will happen if she doesn’t? Will she suffer? It’s just another thing for me to think about, another worry to add to my collection. 

I’ll miss so many things about my daughter when she leaves for college, but I think I’ll miss her singing the most. I’ll miss listening to her beautiful voice. I’ll miss the comfort and familiarity of hearing it in the mornings. But mostly I’ll miss the assurance I get from hearing my daughter sing, the clear sense of knowing that she is okay. 

My daughter leave for college in six months. I’ve been surreptitiously recording her singing on my iPhone for years. It’s not like the real thing, but it’s something. One of my favorite things over the years has been going to my daughters choir concerts. I love every minute — every off-key solo, every dorky Disney song. I love it all. 

Maybe my daughter will join a choir in college. Maybe there will be more concerts in my future. But if there aren’t, even if my daughter never joins another choir, I hope for her sake that wherever she is, she always finds a place to sing. 

The Tornado of Indecision

I’m watching my eighteen-year-old daughter struggle with a big decision right now. She’s trying to decide where to go to college. She applied to multiple schools and she has a broad selection of choices but she doesn’t know the answer. 

I, too, at fifty-four, feel like I am at another crossroads. Do I want to stay at my current job or is it time to move on? Will leaving this job and moving onto another just be more of the same? What is the right answer?

A few nights ago at dinner I tried to tell my daughter that the college answer would come, that by questioning herself she was working out a path to her final decision. In the moment I think I said something like, “your not-knowing is going to help you to ultimately know.”

As she often does, my daughter looked at me like, “… the fuck?!!!” I couldn’t explain it more but because I am in a similar position right now (though not nearly as proportionately big) as my daughter, I have faith in that approach.

Not-knowing is the starting point on the path to knowing. Not-knowing is a place of so much information and possibility that it is impossible to move from that place until some things filter out. In the not-knowing there is an absence of clarity. It’s like the Wizard of Oz tornado —  porches, shoes, trees, cows, and bicycles flying every which way. It’s not safe to move from the basement during the not-knowing. You just wait it out.

Then there is the space-between the not-knowing and the knowing. The space-between is the aftermath of the tornado. Come up the stairs of the basement, open the door a crack and listen for wind, walk outside and look at the damage. Take a deep breath. Take another. What’s next?

In the space-between there is a bit more calm, but still chaos. You still haven’t arrived to the place you want to be. For my daughter she sees that she’s getting closer to having to make a decision. As she looks around her post-tornado inner-world she sees that there is so much information to sift through — how much financial aid am I getting?; do I like the campus?; do I want a bigger or smaller school?; should I go to California?; do I want to go where my friends are going?

For me, in considering the possibilities of my professional life — staying in my job and making the best of it, leaving my job for another known job, or leaving my job and free-falling until I find another job — I also have many questions. What if a new position is filled with the same baggage as my current one?; what if I leave this job and I regret it?; what if I’m just making this decision because I’m emotional about something else?

And in this space-between is the big question, “How will I know?” What I’m starting to understand is that we do know the answers to these big questions. Deep down in our gut-space is the truth that will be revealed once we work our way through the space-between.

For my daughter she will have to churn through her questions. She’ll have to struggle and face her fears of making the wrong decision. She’ll have to ask herself hard questions and listen. Same for me. The space-between is the hardest part because it’s a little bit of both the not-knowing and the knowing. It’s crazy making because it’s neither one nor the other. It’s exhausting to be in both places at the same time.

Patience and faith are the way through this space-between. All of the questions and confusions that exist for my daughter regarding her choice of a college will slowly get answered. As this happens, things will start to look more like they did pre-tornado. Roofs will be repaired, trash hauled away. The sun will come out the weather will be calm. 

I, too, have to slow down my process. I can’t race my way out of the space-between. I have to listen to my questions and explore the answers. I have to prune the wind-ravaged trees and replant the daphne that got pulled out in the storm. 

And while we do this work, my daughter and I, we have to have faith that the answers will be revealed, that we will soon know what we should each do next. This is easier for me because I’ve lived a long life and I can reflect back on my history and see how this process has played out. For my daughter, it’s a scarier place because she hasn’t been here before.

All I can do I is tell her that she’ll know soon, that the answer will come. I can help her patch the roof and clean her yard. I can comfort her in the space-between and remind her that she’s on the path to the knowing.

This is a really hard place, this space-between. It’s rendered both of us impatient, cranky and emotional. But it’s not forever. I imagine us one day, soon, sitting on Dorothy’s front porch, lemonade in hand, sun shining, a gentle, warm wind blowing. We’ll be smiling, not saying anything much, just relaxing, finally home., knowing our answers at last.