Hi all,
Just over a year ago, I had one of those terrific days where I questioned everything I was doing with my life. I wandered about town like a zombie as I ran my errands and found myself unable to focus on the book I was reading. In an attempt to simply get to the end of the day, I went down to the Charles River in the late afternoon with a pen, an empty notebook, and no specific plan.
When I next looked up, a few hours had passed. The bright glare of the sun had been replaced by the dim glow from the streetlights. The once-blank pages of my notebook were now filled with my illegible scribbles.
A month later, I interpreted those notes and formed them into a post called 'What I Learned This Year'. When I finished it, I thought that it came out pretty good. It was a notable thought because I didn't often think such things about my writing back then.
Over the next couple of weeks, various readers got in touch to tell me how much they liked it. One made an interesting comment that, summarized quickly, works out to 'it was writing'. My posts up until then were written, of course, but this one actually seemed to closely resemble writing.
In general, my reaction to feedback is muted. The comments are nice, of course, but I'm also a little skeptical of positive comments. What else would people say? Discouragement is among the worst inventions of humankind. I've been fortunate to have people in my life who understand this. From them, I'm unlikely to hear anything but a positive word.
For that post, though, I agreed with all the feedback. It was because the comments matched up to my perception of the post. I thought the post was good- therefore, I thought the readers who said the same were right.
When I recently looked at my blog calendar, I noticed that I was due to publish a post today, the 12th. That's the same date I published the 'What I Learned This Year' post a year ago. I wondered if I should acknowledge the post and whether I should 'run it back', so to speak, and try a new version of the same idea for these past twelve months. If it went well, looking back a year every July 12 could become an annual feature on this space.
At first, I decided to skip it. It felt like a gimmick. Plus, why risk diminishing last year's post by cooking up the blogger equivalent of The Disappointing Second Album?
But (obviously) I changed my mind. For one, this blog is a gimmick- most blogs are, I suppose, to a certain degree. I would be better served not to forget this. Refusing to write a 'gimmick' post would be like a metal band refusing to play a song on the grounds that it seemed 'loud'.
More importantly, I realized that the most important thing I learned this year was to trust my instincts. My instincts were telling me to address last year's post, and so here it is.
What I learned this past year came about in an entirely different way than what I learned last year. Trusting my instincts is something I always knew to do- there are many examples from my life where I trusted my instincts to great success. But I think this was the first year where I consciously involved my instincts in making major decisions and, in looking back, I don't regret a single result of those decisions.
The past year has been difficult from the context of my unemployment. However, this is a partially self-inflicted difficulty; I was offered two (literally) acceptable jobs that would have alleviated any of my anxiety about staying on the couch.
The first came at the end of July. I liked everyone I met during the interview process and the role was strongly suited to my skills. Analyzing the offer with all my intellect pointed to only one conclusion- take the job. I turned it down.
This was a gut call based on the interviews. During these conversations, I saw almost no evidence of workplace diversity. All but one of my many interviewers were middle-aged white men. My two informal strolls through the cubicles confirmed that promoting from within would not alter the demographics of this firm's leadership in any meaningful way.
I had already graduated from that college. I had already worked at that company. Despite the clamoring from the crowd, I had no interest in an encore performance.
The second offer came in January. Again, I liked the people I met and thought the company was a strong fit with my interest in the healthcare field. The logical conclusion was to take the job. I turned it down.
My instincts would simply not allow it. The final interview was unlike any other I've had so far. Though I was in the office for an hour, I spoke for approximately five minutes. The rest of the time was spent by the interviewers explaining to me why everyone outside the room was not doing their jobs.
Despite the formal introductions and the 'nice to meet yous' at the start of the interview, I realized that I already was quite familiar with these people. They would talk about me when I was out of the room. There was no evidence that this environment would suit me or bring out my best qualities- in fact, based on my experiences, it would surely do the opposite.
My increasing reliance on instinct, I suspect, came out of the growing influence my role as a hospice volunteer was having on me. A volunteer cannot think through problems or solve challenges using only logic. The analytical skills I leaned on for over two and a half decades could only play a role, sometimes a bit-part, in my decision making acts. What mattered more was being present, taking in as much as I could about a situation, and doing what I felt best served the interests of the patient.
It all started, of course, when I trusted my instinct to volunteer. This grew out of my experience with a resident of the same hospice my mother lived in for her final fortnight. Billy was my mother's neighbor, so to speak, at the end of the second floor hallway. I would sometimes visit him when my mother was resting or speak with him when I ran into him out in front of the residence. There was something about those interactions that brought out the best qualities in me.
When I reflected on it months later, I realized that I needed to return. It's always important to go where the best is brought out in you, to spend time with the people that encourage your best qualities, and to do the things that emphasize your unique abilities. But these things are not discovered with analysis. A checklist is no help. To recognize this requires instinct and, more importantly, the confidence, openness, and willingness to trust those instincts.
Affinity is ignored at our own risk and the fear of things ending badly is often enough to prevent a beginning. I think some spend a lifetime at this edge, at this border between analysis and instinct, head and heart, intellect and emotion. I'm not sure if I'm moving freely between these two places, yet, but I can at least say that my passport has a couple of stamps that weren't there a year ago.
The surest sign of this change came when I was thinking about this post. Unlike last year, I did not have a long list of things I learned. In a way, nothing happened, is happening, or seems about to happen. I'm just here. But I have a sense that what I need to recognize is in me, somewhere, and that I have the wisdom and maturity to trust my instincts when I see it emerging.
So, as it stands today, things are far simpler for me than they were a year ago. If the environment is bringing out the best in me, I'll stay. If things are progressing well, I'll keep going. And I'll trust my instincts to notify me when it's time to make a change.
