There are these two young fish swimming along and they happen to meet an older fish swimming the other way, who nods at them and says “Morning, boys. How’s the water?” And the two young fish swim on for a bit, and then eventually one of them looks over at the other and goes “What the #3!!  is water?”

From “This is Water” by David Foster Wallace

I am good at persuading myself into accepting a circumstance. I can do such a thorough job that all other possibilities vanish.

Those fish didn’t see what they were swimming in.

I know the difficulty of leaping into the unknown. There are reasons to stay put.

The hero’s journey studied by Campbell begins the comfortable home. The hero doesn’t become a hero until he is forced into the unknown.

It’s human nature to cling to the familiar. It comes from my animal roots. Stay safe. Stay still.

Then something happens to eject me.

It could be an external disaster. Or it could be something inside me.

The hero has to go on the journey.

That’s bad enough, but with all that long practice of ignoring anything I don’t see. I can’t see what I’m walking into.

I blinded myself.

Shaking and scared I set out to find what I barely believe exists.

Clawing at the mud in my eyes, hoping my vision is still there.

I tamped down the hope and fear of what existed for so long. Time to face it.

Hope and doubt eating their tails.

Faith gets back on her feet, looking through the cracks to where the light gets in.

I’m going to fall. I will surely fail.

But it’s not fatal, as long as I get up once more often than I fall.

I need something and I am going to chase after it. I don’t entirely know what it is, but that is no reason to give up. I won’t let it stop me.

Ran into an old friend this weekend; I hadn’t seen her in a while. I assumed she was too busy with clever important things, and I’d left her alone.

Turns she’d been unwell. I was sorry I hadn’t made an effort to see her—if only I’d realized!

She shrugged and confessed that she’d been keeping it hidden.

Ah.

I kept a lot of things tamped down during the cancer battle. I know Brene Brown sings the praises of vulnerability and no doubt she is right. But how many parts have to be exposed and vulnerable at once?

My Sensei taught me to avoid the fight if you can. If I see a situation in distance, I should use Run Fu and get out of there.

But if I am in it, be all it. Every move I can made, every strike, every dodge, be 100 percent in. That includes blocking and defending, and when the fight is on all things narrow down to the next action.

After cooperating with the doctor’s medical attacks, I wasn’t sure what else I could do. I chose to keep putting my face out there. I felt as though I didn’t have a right to struggle in public, like I ought to be embarrassed and hide my weakness. I fought it by showing up so that I “may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand”

There was cringe factor. There was learning to be ok with what that day brought me.

With the fight over, the world has expanded. My wounds are healing, and this warrior is returning to regular life. What just happened in these last three years?

I’ll admit I’m jumpy after the long fight, but I did pick and finish a project from before. I published my book, and remembered that part of me.

Last time I wrote a book I didn’t know how to talk about it. I didn’t have the courage to be all in. I’ve learned a lot, and the world has made space for me.

The fighter I’ve become has also learned to make space for myself. Whether and elbow or a knee, or an introduction to a stranger that I’d like to meet.

I’ve said it before, unemployment is like being marooned on a desert island. The days are long.

I’ve taken to lighting candles so I can see evidence of time passing by the candle wax level lowering.

When my daughter was a newborn, time passed slowly too. I began counting each feeding as its own day—making each 24 hour day with a feeding every three hours equivalent to 8 days.

Staring into the unfocussed eyes of my newborn, I looked for a sign that I was a person. Yes, I was sleep deprived, injured and post-partum insane. And I was sure I didn’t matter at all to this new baby. Any  person—even a machine–could have done what I was doing. These were not difficult or personalized.

She couldn’t tell who I was. I was not significant or distinctive.

I didn’t matter.

As I say that, I know it is not true.

You, my reader, recognize the absurdity.

“Of course you matter!”

As mother of a newborn then

and now as a long and even longer suffering jobseeker, I am ensnared by this favorite folly

This conviction that no one notices me, that my best hope is to be ignored so that I can keep my seat at the table. As long as I don’t draw attention I won’t be asked to leave.

A month or so in I was playing with her and talking to my tiny baby, she smiled

AT ME

For the first time I felt connected to her. I was recognized.

Achilles had his heel; I have my weak spot that throbs. I’ve learned many people have a wound like this, that I return to again and again.

Last week, after my most recent job rejection, I attended an expo. Feeling isolated, insignificant and worse,  I found a friend and scraped together a set elevator speech as I prepared to ask for a job.

I’d been working on a book for my industry, The AV Project Manager Handbook. I brought a pre- publication proof as a conversation starter.

At the event, I met person after person that I’d known for years. Seemed that I personally knew half the attendees at the event. Then the people who I didn’t know yet saw my book and were thrilled to meet me and learn about this useful book.

I’d fallen for my old trap, believing that I’m nothing.

I may not have a job or a position YET, but it’s coming. Things take time to grow. That’s a certain text.

I’m not proud to say I’ve felt this way, but telling the story of my shame let’s a little sunlight in. And if anyone else sees their own folly as I share mine, perhaps we both can lift ourselves inot the light.

Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp,

Or what’s a heaven for?

Robert Browning

I’ve had three years of learning to live with impairment. Those were years of breaking old habits and picking up new ones.

Like a teenager that can’t drive, I narrowed my horizons significantly.

Three years to break habits of a lifetime.

Is that how it works?

I think what I did is make new habits. Habits of distracting myself as I marked time.

Last week I said I didn’t recognize myself I remembered the person I used to be, doing the things TODAY that I once did years ago.

Times do change. That kid gets a license and starts to see what’s out there.

Or things that were once required get simpler.

Or new distractions dominate my view.

Where’s my jetpack? Wasn’t it all supposed to be done by robots now?

I’ve picked up a book “indistractible” which discusses how to focus again.

Those little jokes and funny memes are the snack food of the mind.

I’m grown and I know how much I will can’t resist certain snacks, and I won’t even let them in the house.

These new habits are starting to smell the same.

My life was different four years ago. A lot changed.

The world changed too.

Same song

Second verse

A little bit louder and a little bit worse

Indistractible points out that our time spent on these entertaining mindsnacks is a way of avoiding boredom, also known as pain.

During the cancer treatments I fostered distraction from pain.

Here on the other side, I shake my head like a dog out of the bath.

I don’t want to avoid pain.

There is reward on the other side.

In principle, anyway.

It is up to me to work the principles out in practice.

Practices from the cancer years are still useful now:

What can I reach for? What is possible today?