Today is the day before my 27th
birthday, and I am afraid.
The fear in my head is not the kind of
dread you feel in the immediate, say, at the sight of something shocking. It isn't a feel of paranoid unease,
either. Rather, it is a fear brought
about by a persistent and unquiet uncertainty, a simmering pot of question stew, bubbling up with chunks of "what if"s "should I"s .
I have just finished my last day of work at
my primary source of income. If I fail to find work in the next two months, I will be broke. I will be forced into a situation where I must rely entirely on the charity of others, and while that charity may be willingly given, I feel deeply ashamed at the possibility. I dread even more that I may be forced away from a place I have come to call home, and friends that I have made in that place.
To understand this, I have to look back.
* * * *
One month ago, I am working. I am working nearly every day, perhaps too
much, but all to further a goal of eventual financial freedom. I am saving up, as they say.
I am thinking of taking a vacation. It will be the first vacation I have taken in
several years. I don't want to overspend
myself, so I'm looking at easy, close-by destinations. The east coast. Niagara-on-the-lake. Montreal.
Something simple. An earned rest.
I have no idea that I will be going to work
on Monday following a long weekend to find that the budget has been slashed and
my hours have been cut by 60%. This cut
will put me into a place well below the poverty line. In the most expensive city in Canada, such a
cut can amount to a death sentence. I
will go into work, be given a short, five minute meeting, and I will walk out
with my resignation on my lips. I will
tell them that my last day of work will be April 30th. I will do this because I am angry and hurt,
and because my pride will prevent me from begging for scraps. Inside, however, I will be filled with regret.
Until this point, things seemed to be going
so well.
* * * *
Six months ago, I am riding the crest of a
wave of good fortune and the fruits of hard work. I am giving my very first reading at my very
first book launch. My story is short, and
basic, but it is included in an anthology of great work and being put out by a
publisher of good reputation. Even
better, it is being launched at a major convention in the city I live in, a
rare and incredibly lucky opportunity for any writer, beginner or otherwise.
My hands quiver as I hold the book up and
read, but it is a good kind of fear, the kind that accompanies first dates or
rollercoaster rides. I ride that
rollercoaster of nerves, screaming inside my head with pure joy that this is
it, this is a beginning, this is the first step.
I can't believe how lucky I am. I remember, in those moments, when I first
received the email telling me I would be part of this anthology. It was one year ago, the end of April.
* * * *
One year ago, I'm about to head out to a
concert celebrating science fiction. I've just spent a month writing about my favourite science fiction TV series and movies, and I'm feeling pretty good about it. Even if my readership consists of a close-knit group of friends, it's fun to put out writing into the world that people are genuinely enjoying. In my line of work/hobby/somewhere in-between, I hear a lot of differing opinions about why people should write. Write for yourself, some people say. Write for your audience, say others. Write because you have something to say. Write because you want to be heard. Like so many other things in life, it always seems to be about finding a balance of all these opinions.
A concert is like a snapshot of finding balance. So many disparate sounds and noises all coming together in synchronicity to form something with at least some measure of cohesion to it. Tempo, tempo, always about tempo. Timing, it seems, is one of the most vital aspects of success. How to know what time to act, when we don't know what lies ahead? Can we approximate a cycle of the economy to match the cycle of what we want out of life?
* * * *
Three years ago, I'm pulling my life up by
the roots and dragging it across the country, kicking and screaming, in search
of the proverbial greener pasture. I
have no job. No plan. I'm sitting in a pub in downtown Calgary,
sharing drinks with some of the greatest people in the world as we celebrate
our nation's birthday. At the same time,
they're offering me the most tremendous support imaginable, even if they don't
fully understand what's driving me to take this course of action. I'm going to travel across the country,
seeing more than half of the second-largest nation on Earth in the
process. It's going to be one of the
greatest experiences of my life to date.
Afterwards, I will end up in Toronto, where I have no job lined up and
not even a home to drive to. In spite of
all this, I am happier than I've ever been, in the company of my friends, with
the road ahead of me and my belongings crammed into an import sedan.
Three years, in the grand scheme of human
existence, is not a long time. By the
reckoning of recorded human history it is barely worth a footnote. In the modern age, we can be expected to live
thirty of these periods of three, each representing a tiny pie slice of a vast
span.
Yet here I am, three years older, and I am
afraid.
* * * *
Were I given the opportunity and the means,
I would conjure up a double of myself from that time, grab it by the shoulders,
shake it with exasperated fury, and demand:
“What changed? Where did you get
the idea, the sheer gall, to try something crazy like that? You turned your back on a stable income, a
promising future, a city with connections and people and family. How could you do that?”
Of course my double of three years' past
would have no answers, because there are
none.
What there ARE, are multitudes of plausible
pitfalls, theoretical shortcuts, might-have-been methods to weave my way
through the tapestry of alternatives to the point I now find myself in.
Despite my complete inability to ever fully
comprehend the totality of that realm of infinity, I see one thing with
complete clarity. I see the
path I have followed: it cuts its way through a field of limitless
possibility, amidst a myriad of paths not taken, untried, abandoned. It's not much, against that overwhelming maze of existence, but it's something: it's mine.
And as I claim ownership of that worn-out road, I take everything that comes with it: the mistakes, the successes, the joy, the sorrow, the foolishness, the inspiration. Looking back, it's easy to see how I've arrived. Looking ahead, it's hard to tell how I will end up.
Today is the day before my 27th
birthday, and I am afraid.
But tomorrow is another day, as like or unlike any other.
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Happy birthday, brother. Don't be afraid. No one who offers help to you does so begrudgingly; everyone who cared about you three years ago, or a year ago, or yesterday, cares about you today and will tomorrow.
ReplyDeletePeople who care about you don't measure your worth based on your career or your earnings. People who care about you aren't interested in measuring anything about you. Erm, yes. I'll just leave that alone now.
If I looked back three years from age 27, I could paint you a fairly ugly picture of bad choices. If I look at my life now, it's pretty great, despite my career basically slapping me in the face at every turn, and despite me having almost constant worry that I am not progressing as a person on some rather important levels. But it's part of the process.
Be proud of your independence and your accomplishments, be proud of the connections you have made and maintained that allow you a cushion should you find there are bumps along the way. There ain't no shame in sleeping at Mom's. Or my place. I do it all the time.
xo
Happy birthday, brother.