And I really have enjoyed my stay/But I must be moving on. ~ Supertramp
On Wednesday of this past week, I gave notice to my employer and work colleagues that May 1st will be my last day. I must be moving on. On Friday of this coming week, I will celebrate fifty-two years of living on this good Earth. As you can see, some biggies in the span of a few days.
The expected response from my work colleagues has been “Gosh. What are you going to do?” My possibly unexpected response has been “I’m not entirely sure.” That is the truth. Now, I have work in front of me, some freelance jobs centered around writing and editing, plus I’m to start coaching a few CrossFit classes beginning in April. So I’ve some idea for the immediate future what I’m going to do. But the meatier question, one I think my work colleagues are curious about as well, is “Gosh. From here on out, what are you going to be?”
I have some stirrings, even some dreams, that I’m excited about chasing while I still have my wits about me. I will continue to write, and as I’ve mentioned here before, I’m open to opportunities to speak, I guess because I feel I’ve something to say. There are wagonloads of people talking these days, but I’m not always certain they’re saying anything. Actually, I take that back. I am certain, they’re not saying anything. The fancy word for that is logorrhea. The unfancy definition being “diarrhea of the mouth.” I know, that’s crude, but I bet you won’t forget it. By the time you’re fifty-two, you’ve lived long enough to have seen a few things, and maybe even learned a few. If nothing else, hopefully you’re a little better acquainted with yourself, or as I like to say, “You’re responsible for your own face.”
In anticipation of moving on, I’ve been reading a lot of David Whyte, a trustworthy guide for such midlife reinventions/rebirths. Plus I’ve read a little Pressfield, but just a little. At the end of the day, I put most of my eggs in the poet’s basket. And while I’ve always had great respect for those who’ve stayed at the same post their entire careers, I confess I’ve always gravitated toward those with a more colorful résumé, one where the road is somewhat less taken, crooked, one that follows a wanderin’ star.
Excited? Yes. I’m also scared, but good scared, the kind that by fifty-two years old you know is evidence you’re alive instead of merely housing a pulse. So here we go. Gosh.