I’ve done a lot of job searches in the last ten years, and they are always challenging. But this one feels painful. I’m putting a lot of effort into this and getting very little response back. I put in applications and not much happens.

To be fair, I have had two artificial intelligence recruiters interview me. The Human Resources robot is a piece of dark irony that lifts the one side of my smile.

I’m grateful to past Murphy for maintaining progress on my martial arts journey. The rest of this year I am pushing on to the big uplevel of black belt. Preparing to achieve a black belt involves a lot of repetitions to gain strength and achieve excellence.

Also, it takes going to classes 4-6 days a week. That’s a lot of classes. I’ll be honest, I take guilty pleasure when the teacher starts monologuing. It’s nice to get a rest.

Then again, one of the parts of my training is to start to lead classes on my own. Do I want to avoid monologuing? Or do I want do a better version of it?

I am reminded of something I learned in acting class: the difference between a soliloquy and a monologue.

It’s subtle. Both involve one person talking at length to an audience. But the soliloquy is meant to be informed by the audience.

The monologue is a favorite of villians. Villians are bad at seeing others’ point of view. Their monologues often expose the character flaws and blindspots.

A soliloquy is meant to take in the reactions and emotional responses of the audience. As a teacher, I’d like to be aware of how my students are taking it in.

This brings me back to the job hunt. When I do get an interview, I have a set of stories and answers to the questions that I am asked.

When I am at my best, I can understand what the interviewer is hoping to hear in my response. Then again, I am often too absorbed in my own nervous insecurities to see the interviewer’s point of view. I can talk to fast and babble on.

All through my martial arts journey, I have learned that the training applies to my life in surprising ways. To be a good teacher, I see that I can also listen to how I am talking, and how others are hearing me. There are times when I must speak uninterrupted. And yet, it is a ninja move to be aware of the other;s subltle responses in the moment

It might be to duck and avoid a punch to the face. It could also be noticing the eyes sliding away and down in the middle of an explanation that is no longer relevant.

Both are valuable and difficult to catch. That’s part of the repetitious training I’m doing, is to get it right sometimes, and hopefully more often. I want to be more of the hero than the villain.

Someone told me that for the Irish—the celts—beaches are in between spaces. It’s not quite one thing or the other.

Not land. 

Not Sea.

Maybe both.

Walk along the edge of the water, one foot on sand. It can give a view into things hard to see.

I am in the realm of maybe both. No job. It’s not quite summer and not quite fall. The school year starts this week.

In the in between time, before summer is ended and before I have found my next job, I am looking to check in on myself.  Do I recognize what I see?

I’m looking for a view into things. It’s not a comfortable place, spinning in place without progress.

Should I start all over again?  Give this EtchaSketch a hard shake and see what is possible?

What is stable? What can I be sure of?

I know I am committed to doing this weekly post. I may be in between a lot of things, but I am always a writer. I may not feel like it all the time. I know that feeling like it is not required.

The only qualification to be a writer is to write something.

And there it is. I can take the action—make the choice—in this space of both and neither. I don’t have to feel the progress. I can make progress without feeling it. One choice, one move is all it takes.

I don’t even have to stop the spin. I can tilt just a little to get going.

I don’t feel it yet, but I will. I can be sure of that.

It was a booklist. This substacker got me to sign up with the promise of a list of books that changed his life.

Yes please! (side note: would my substack readers like a booklist? Stay tuned!)

It was a nice booklist. I found one of the books at the library, and after a couple weeks on the waitlist I got it. ESSENTIALISM: The disciplined pursuit of Less by Greg McKeown

I’m trying to read books again not just audio, now that my eyes aren’t as tired as they were on chemo. A business self-help-y serious book that I read with my eyes open is a familiar habit I’d lost.

His idea is that people must do fewer things, and only the things that are truly essential.

I remembered another old habit: arguing with the book I’m reading.

Ok, book. Hey, I am a fan of Peter Drucker too: “Do first things first, and second things not at all.”

…said no woman ever…

Which am I supposed to do, Mr. McKeown—Breathe or eat?

There are always competing things to prioritize. I kept reading and found a section I could vibe with better: “in every set of facts, something essential is hidden…finding it involves exploring those pieces of information and figuring out the relationship between them.”

Here is why I still want to read the book. We agree on this. That is a huge part of my career, and one of the things I like. What is the things that when linked make the essence?

The throbbing deficiency is the most important thing. 

Humble things can be unbearable in their absence. And the lack so quickly forgotten once it is filled, to be upstaged by the next hunger pain.

It’s true-ish, only focusing on the essentials. It’s kind of like trying to be perfect. I will never get there, but I never want to stop trying. And for what it’s worth, I haven’t finished the book.

One of the things Chris brought into my life was old movies. He took me to a theater nearby that showed classic movies to see Lawrence of Arabia. Since I grew up largely without a TV and almost no movies, he was happy to show me these works of art. It made a big impression on me, and I remembered the experience.

This week our now local theater had a special showing of that same movie and we went to see it—this time with 15 year old Veronica. A four hour movie with intermission is not part of modern life.

Chris asked Veronica to look for how Lawrence changed throughout the movie. I saw him as a romantic idealist and was so hard on himself in the beginning.

And by the end so much had changed. 

The film is known for having a lot of space in the scenes. This space gave me room to reflect on myself too.

So much has changed for me between the time I first saw the film with Chris and this second time. More than twenty years for me and the territory of my life is changed.

Lawrence’s influence changed the land that he involved himself in. It’s changed to this day, and history has moved significantly because of what he did.

These twenty years of my life have seen a lot of change. I was more of an idealist then as well. I admire how hard Lawrence went after his goal. I have chased my own as well.

I can see that for him, those goals and ideals were so shiny and pure in the distance. I remember what I thought my goals would be before I achieved them. 

He had changed so much of Arabia. And it was not as shiny and pure as he hoped.

There was a lot I didn’t know the first time I saw that movie. I’ve covered a lot of ground between then and now. There is still a lot of path ahead. It very well could be difficult.

What I remember from the movie is this dialogue and the start. Lawrence makes a point of putting out the match with his bare fingers. His fellow soldier tries it, and declares “Ooh! It damn well ‘urts!”

Lawrence gives him a cool look and replies, “Certainly it hurts.
The trick, William Potter, is not minding that it hurts.”

I took that in  when I heard it the first time. Life can hit with stuff that hurts. I’ll make it a point not to mind.

It has begun.

I have arrived at the beginning of the end.

During the lockdown I was alone, cut off and desperate to connect with people. Who would be willing to breathe the same air?

No one knows how much it might kill you. Don’t touch anything!

While I was thinking of the death that lurks on surfaces, a friend sent out a call to a self-defense class. Would I go?

Yes! Absolutely! Anything to be around people.

This karate studio was still open. I put my kid in the class, and resisted a little bit before I started in the adult class. And then one thing led to another.

And today I join the final session to enroll in the boot camp to arrive at the Black Belt. I think back on what the last four years has covered and how I’ve learned to be a practiced fighter in far more situations than only on the mat. 

These four years have brought me to greater strength and a different mindset. Yes, I learned how to throw a punch. I also learned how to defend myself against an insulting and abusive boss, even to the point of leaving that job with a greater sense of clarity.

Sometimes I have to GET OUT of a situation. 

Sometimes I have to find a way to stay in longer. 

Like my training to get to the status of blackbelt. And also marriage.

It is a fine line I’ve been walking, learning more and more about what I can do. What can I achieve? What can I endure? How far can I push myself? 

And that’s not even taking the cancer treatments into consideration.

I remember when I first started, I was blown away by the senseis doing their moves. I had to hold onto the fence when I did a kick or I would fall over. The workouts were harder than anything I’d ever done. I was careful not to eat before class or I would throw up.

Now four years later it is easy.

And they are kicking it up another level. These senseis  know how to kick it up and that is what I’m going to have to do to get this black belt.

Anyone could do the easy thing. That’s not for me. I chose this, and many other things like it, to challenge myself. 

Now is not the time to back off. I started this whole thing wanting to be around people—at a time when the air itself seemed trying to kill me.

As I got better at fighting back, more and more things appeared that needed to be conquered, including and especially my own body.

I took the medical intervention, and kept training. Now is the time to build up my body, not only endure the attack.

This is the time to stay in and fight for the next level up.

She’s back.

My daughter did 3 solid weeks in two summer camps.

She was very glad to get home, and I was glad to have her.

It’s summer. She’s free and I’m unemployed.

We watched the Pride and Prejudice with Colin Firth. The Only True version of pride and prejudice—from 1995

Wait..what? Thirty years ago?

My husband has sucked up different movies and TV shows for the family on a server. When I asked him to include all period drama shows, he found several versions of Pride and Prejudice. It would seem that the Austen novel is remade for the screen very frequently. I accidentally opened a BBC version from the 70s.

We watched the dialogue-heavy version for a bit before I gave up, promising her a better one.

Firth, frozen in time, seemed as brooding and romantic a leading man as ever.

But my Gen Z girl didn’t see it quite the same way. Then again, she didn’t even know the story. I’d read the novel as a book, so I followed along knowing all the twists to come.

She was sure that Mr. Darcy was unforgivable.

The pause button allowed for a lot of discussion of the characters.

“Remember, this novel is written by a master author. Jane Austen wrote these characters to have a dynamic arc.”

She was riveted by the family, Mr. Collins and Lady Catherine de Burgh. I pointed out which characters didn’t really change.

Mr. Darcy changed and so did Elizabeth Bennet. Most of the people stayed the same. The snooty Bingley sisters were mean the whole way through.

Veronica had no respect for the mother.

Spending this extra time on the series, I was having more and more respect for the actors, as well as how Austen created these timeless characters.

Timelessness is always flavored by the moment it was captured. Yes, the period houses and dresses refer to a real thing. But the later interpretation is from new perspective. The people who made their version of a classic put their stamp on it.

And I will see it through many different eyes. I see it the way I experienced it when I read it—which was when I was my daughter’s age. And then I remember when I first saw this version.

I also remember how others talked about this version, even Bridget Jones’ Diary.

And then I get to enjoy it again from the uninitiated perspective of my Gen Z daughter. She was not prejudiced about any of the characters in the story–unless I prejudiced her.

It was the timeless summer, lazily experiencing the beautiful story together.

It’s an election year. This last week has been riveting, beginning with an assassination attempt on Trump, the Republican party presidential candidate. Only one week later ended with a first-time-in-history change—Biden as the sitting president and the democrat party candidate stepped down.

That was this week. The week before, as I’ve been sharing with you all, I was exploring America. I was not riveted to the news, because I was looking at the natural world around me.

With the election, I am reminded of April 2020. I remember how the news was all I looked at during the start of the pandemic. I check the news on TV and on my phone trying to verify the latest death surges. Where was it bad? Who knew what?

I HAD TO KNOW!!!

Even though I eventually caught the virus later that year, the pain of COVID for me was that separation from myself. I don’t want to hold my attention in my pocket. A few inches of screen is not enough of a window into the world.

The fact is, with all my medical poisoning, I narrowed my world again to that screen. Well, really to the speaker. My eyes were too tired to stay open and my mind was often too weak to lift weightier subjects.

I spent hours and hours lying down in the dark, sleepless but listening to books or comedy podcasts. I got very used to this link to entertainment.

But just as I had in 2020 I have begun to feel the creeping ick of prepackaged jokes and opinions. I want to get away from this dependency.

I’ve talked about this with Veronica. She shared this song “Welcome to the Internet!”

(Language warning)

Could I interest you in everything? 

All of the time?

A little bit of everything 

All of the time

Apathy’s a tragedy 

and 

boredom is a crime

Anything and everything

All of the time.

This is my kid’s life. She is fully in this world

But who am I kidding? I’m even more in it.

I am supposed to be online. It’s my job and I’m a grownup. I’m supposed to know what is good for me.

Right. I sit here drinking my coffee with sugar at the Panera about to order a cinnamon roll instead of dinner and I’m the one who has to call a halt on myself. Should I feel superior that I’m in Panera and not McDonalds? 

Of such small differences

While we were in the hotel on our trip we three collapsed after our day of travel and excursions. Separate phones separate screens. 

What are we doing?

No. What am *I* doing?

I’m the designer of my life. What could I do? 

I pulled out a deck of cards and set up a game of solitaire on the bedspread.

This is a familiar addiction. I don’t like the path it takes me on.

I might be alone in my determination to cut the constant connection to the everything all of the time. I’m not going to lecture others to do the same. 

But when I put it down, at least my husband started telling me what he was reading. We were connected even though I wasn’t looking at the screen.

And just like Winnie the Pooh I am going to step through the screen right now. Yes, I’m talking to you now. I know you are reading this very sentence on a screen. I’m writing on one, after all.

I write these weekly wonders as a way of observing myself and my thoughts. I am glad that you, dear reader come along and connect with me. My intention is not to be a little bit of everything, but to be a little bit of my authentic person shared with you all.

I didn’t buy that Cinnamon roll after all. I am writing this (rather lengthy) essay about my hopes, weaknesses and do-overs.

In this election season, I’d like to step away from the grimy drama and remember what I appreciate about the people around me. I’d like to give hugs. I want to pass a bit of watermelon than pass judgment.

The city of Santa Fe has rules.  

It is an old city with the oldest church in the nation. I could feel the history there. This is a rare feeling for a West Coast American.

The air is thin at this high elevation. I felt things were surreal bordering on the mystical.

What do people do here—I found myself wondering. 

I couldn’t see signs of industry.

When I met a government official at the hotel, he said their industry was art.

That made sense. I had glanced over the many art shops because it seemed to rich for my blood, but there were so many of them they must be doing some business to stay open.

The thing I noticed about this NEW Mexico culture—unlike the OLD Mexico I was familiar with in California—is their buidings were very plain. Pueblo style, slightly melted squares of adobe mud. 

Now, the old buildings I could believe were original pueblo style.

But the parking garage?

I learned that this was the rule. This style of architecture and no other was permitted in the whole area. More than a hundred years ago, the city had decided to have only this pueblo style for anyt building.

It gave a peace to the eye as I looked over the downtown streets. No jarring corners or edges, smooth and neutral color.

It blended in with the trees in a comfortable way.

How startling for a town with so much art, to choose this conformity.

I’d always thought of artists as eclectic, and messy. Bright colors, things that caught the eye. 

Not here. The town had chosen a strict style. 

Could it be that the discipline placed on the city cramped the artists possibilities? I would think that artists would avoid these kind of rules.

And yet, the culture and the business of the town proved me wrong. The artists came and created there, were drawn to it. Perhaps the constraint inspire the art, like a poet might choose a tiny Haiku to express a large idea.

My family watched Dr. Strangelove o the Fourth of July. It was a timecapsule of Cold War absurdity. The competitive stances between the Soviet Unions and America was highlighted as the story had them racing to find a way to save people from the detonation of a nuclear doomsday device

The only way to survive would be to hide in deep mine shafts for a hundred years or so.

The next day we all flew to New Mexico, where Chris and I visited once of the largest caves in the world : Carlsbad caverns.

We got the full experience of this natural wonder, arriving just before sunset to join with the other nature tourists in an ampitheatre of local stone to watch and wait for the moment

The moment when the first—then many thousands— of bats emerged from the cave to go eat.

They do not eat us, the ranger assured the children. THESE bats don’t eat blood.

The group was surprisingly quiet as the bats zoomed out of the cave in a fast fluttery black spiral.

When we returned the next day, that uncharacteristic quiet returned as we descended into the cave.

The mystery and majesty of these vast caverns inspired us to restrain our voices.

“There are a lot of kids here,” I said to Chris. “But I don’t here them making much noise. I don’t even hear babies crying.”

“Who would take a baby in a cave?” He asked.

“I don’t know, I’ve seen peopel take babies in all kinds of strange places. But you are right. I don’t see any babies being carried.”

“They would be stolen by goblins,” he smiled.

THe power of the babe.

I had been thinking of goblins and dwarves from stories this whole time. 

“We have to listen for drums” i replied.

But aside from fantasy legends, I wondered about caves.

What are caves used for? 

“What do you think would have happened if a cave like this had been discovered in Germany in 1200? Or China? Or Africa?”

I had just been told what happens in 1900 when this cave had been discovered. They drilled down to “mine” the guano from all the bats for fertilizer. 

And then it was turned tourist destination and the government put it under protection.

They made the smooth paths that I could walk down in the dark, with an elevator to get back up.

Would Germany have turned it into a fort?

I think the ancient Greeks would have turned it into a shrine to consult Oracles.

After we got out of the cave I asked the internet about it.

Carlsbad caverns is 9th of the top ten caves of the world. Number one is in Kentucky and was discovered in 1791.

THe next biggest cave is in Mexico—underwater! 

There is an enormous cave in Switzerland that was discovered in 1875.

It seems that big caves were mostly discovered after the 20th century. But from what I can tell, big caves are not practically useful.

We walked through the cavern, the water tracing through the caves for centuries and making their marks. 

The sun did not shine there. No algae grew in the small pools of water.

Gollum would not have found a fish in these pools No life can be here!

But how could I forget the bats? They live even deeper in this cave than I could get to.

There are many mysteries still in this world.

You have to be 35 to be president.

Like a boundary marker, this one stands out. 

Most of adulthood is unmapped. There are sea monsters and dragons in the blanks. I will have to fill in those spaces with discoveries from my own discoveries and interpretations.

My year and a half of cancer fighting is behind me, but the experience jolted the timeline and I fell into an alternate universe. I was poisoned which made me sick and stupid and I was not myself.

But the fight is behind me, right? 

Isn’t it? 

I am trying to populate in the part where I merge back.

Is it there a back to get to? Or did the reroute of the integration plan take me to a completely new alternative universe?

What familiar milestones would tell me if I am on the map of myself?

I already wrote about this experience making me 80 years old before my time. I want to exit the era of premature elderliness and become the age I am now.

Somehow, though, the current moment remains unmapped.

I’m turned around and lost track of the landmarks.

When it comes to adulthood, there is a literature on how to live your life and achieve goals.

Some books say ‘remember what you liked to do when you were little. The child person was able to be joyful and not hesitate to do fun things.’

I can have fun, sure. But even as a little kid I did have people I wanted to stay connected to, that took care of me and whom I took care of.

I’m thinking of that 35-year-old. That person might be thinking about becoming president. More frequently, that person is not on the presidential track. Either way,  a 35-year-old is expected to be capable of read a situation and make choices.

I meet that requirement to be president, even if I’m not running. I will have to be the leader of myself, although I do feel lost and turned around. I’d better look for the sea monsters to avoid

This is unfamiliar territory, and it’s not what I expected. Nevertheless, I will have to identify or create the milestones that let me know what I’m aiming towards. I have to look for the treasure islands I want to land on.