Task at Hand

March 15, 2013

Bitter tears stream down my tired and dampen the spirits face aged with long wakeful travels. My intention of working extended and break my back laborious hours in the glorious productive fields with inventive farmers never came to fruition. Many months of detailed preparation, communication with contacts regarding integral seasonal timing, sorted complicated transportation and gratis room and board fizzled, disappeared in the blink of an accident on a slippery slope. The intense grief appears out of the blue and I couldn’t be more grieved at the loss of my unrequited dream.

In front of me lies the challenge of maneuvering our survivor level wage rate employment prospects riddled with rejection and discouragement. Unless of course I manage to greet the chance of work for trade in another field entirely, one that doesn’t require long hours on the balls of my feet nor an expertise in fresh mud-ridden produce. The lay of the land of opportunity, our streets paved with gold that await my positive thinking approach, a Super Woman’s stance of confidence and professional foot attire to support my lumpish left foot is imperative. All is available in the Land of the Home and the Free!

The grueling task of a search and rescue operation discovering the guarded skills and talents I packed away for future use those many months ago before accepting my ex-pat mission is at hand. I cannot possibly manage without the devoted support of my multitude of friends and family whom spew resources and suggestions I open-mindedly consider unless of course I stew in my stubbornness and dig in my heels with resistance.

I could be a pilot, astronaut, firefighter, brain surgeon, circus clown, golf cart driver, go go dancer, life guard, writer, professional basketball player, renter of wheelchairs at the Mall, street sweeper, Global Globe Award decision maker, fashion model, Geriatric Care Manager, photographer, tiger attendant at the zoo. The sky is the limit. My mind whirls with the chance to discover the particular posts that will reflect who I am now and what I am capable of.  

Now, if only I could shake the inability to recognize objects (visual agnosia) like the patient in The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat. Guess I will go back to bed!