Be Open; Show Up

After a year of unemployment, of the disappointing Portland job-interview-tread-mill scene, of running away from it all to the coast (never intending to look for work while submerged in my beach-y sabbatical), I am now juggling three jobs!

This is not really hard to do in the coastal "off" season. Part-time, piece-meal work over the winter is typical. I'm meeting all kinds of folk who do this, year after year. They work a steady job over the summer - long, hard hours at one site; and then thread a bunch of odds and ends together over the winter. The coast employment mentality is a refreshing contrast to the Portland mindset. Last year in my strategic job search, I stuck two notations to my lap top when I needed a little rah-rah moment. On the left corner of my screen a post-it challenges me to "Be Open." On the other side another goads me to just "Show Up." It was a way to stretch my confidence beyond my boxy limitations; to remind myself I don't have to have the full package to go after the job. Just be open and show up. Go for it; be a competitor like the rest of 'em. But at the coast, Be Open, Show Up takes on a whole new dimension.

For instance, instead of the typical job search protocol (preparing a cover letter, selecting just the right one of my five resumes, rehearsing the snappy four-point interview presentation, matching the appropriate blouse and shoes to the professional suit and job description, meeting with a series of interviewers who explain all about their needs and deftly query my skill sets), I was hired during a casual over the counter conversation after tromping the beach in my bald jeans and sloppy rubber clogs and told, "Go ahead and get started with my manager. I'll interview you when I get back from my buying-trip and vacation." That's in three weeks. Ya gotta love this beach mentality. Be Open; Show Up.

That's one of the jobs - gift store retail; for now. I was told they were desperate for clerical help too later (after the interview?). Or, this position could be a combination of both roles. Who knows? Don't know my wage. Obviously don't know the job description. But I'm working! And.....I can walk the beach to work.

Then there's the temporary job in Seaside for a couple in dire need of a vacation. Owners of a furniture store, but too under-staffed to take time off and enjoy some down time, they're eager for mature back-up help. My friend and I strolled in, killing time before we fulfilled our girlie night out to watch Meryl Streep in It's Complicated, and began visiting with the two women working the showroom. They were bored and friendly; we were friendly and chatty, and before I knew it I was engaged in a conversation that lead to a job as "floor-room sitter" while they're on vacation. I have a weekend of training, and bam! Next week, I'm on deck. Nothing complicated or traditional about it.

And of course, there's hostessing at Mo's - great people who took me in like mother hens....clucking in empathy; not ready to hire for the spring/summer rush, but couldn't deny their DNA. Helping others get a step up is part of the Mo's heritage - hailing from Mo herself. A salty, gutsy coastal gal who raised her family and a restaurant, chowder bowl by chowder bowl. Working at Mo's doesn't feel like working. It's more like a family pulling together; serving lusty meals at the family table. Coming into this job was nothing at all like a Monster.com process.

I've conditioned myself toward landing the one job. The one that shapes my stage of life in a practical tidy orbit. Health care is the hub with concentric issues of retirement, sustainable living, and a life/work balance. The sensible American dream. But reality asks, "how elastic can I be?"

We'll see. For now, I'll stay in the mode and see where it takes me. I'll Be Open and Show Up.

Life Illuminated

Lord, have mercy.....I'm on sensory overload.

It's not very often, in Oregon, from sun-up to sun-set, for days in a row, to have spectacular light and clarity. I mean, this is the northwest. The land of low cloud ceilings, fog vapors hanging in shrouds, misty gray upon grey upon blah.

But winter on the coast is another matter. Though it is cold, temps in the 30's, I can see. For miles upon gorgeous miles, all the way to the horizon. No matter I have to layer about sixteen times, have all but my nose and cheeks exposed. The wind's minimal; the sky Montana-high; the water so sparkly that light jumps and jives wave upon wave; and the dark, volcanic ruggedness of Haystack juts out against deep turquoise, white foam crashing at it's base. The color has always been here - blues, whites, greens, blacks, but all tinted dim. Now though, the intense, low winter sun acts like a theater flood light. Everything pops - life illuminated.

I need times like these. A season to absorb. To let my eyes soak it and plaster it on the back of my brain like a mural for those days I know are ahead - the dull season. The season that drips and drones, and drains. The season where you have to remember what intensity is. Where you must trust there really is such a thing as, sha-zam!

So, I'm finding it hard to do anything else these days. I just stare. Sit and stare. Walk and stare. Find a tucked away warm dune, and flop and stare. Stare to the point where it seems my eyeballs just can't take any more. So by late afternoon I'll head back to my studio, putz around tidying, folding laundry, and then out my window I'll notice the sunset making ready - like an orchestra tuning up. It starts with a tease...a peachy glow, one long violin-like note bleeding into indigo. Then, building, a grandioso, the sun flames into hot tangerine, bursting rays of red-orange against deep purples, throbbing against it's reflection in surf and shimmering sand like deep pulsating cellos. And suddenly, a kettle drum explosion of gold bursts, sinks, and disappears into a wash of magenta....trembling, quivering, like the last viola.

And there I am, suspended, laundry in hand, staring out the window. Stunned by the music; the dance between light and dark. And I will remember. Life illuminated.