I love it when a little epiphany strikes me when I least expect it. Yesterday I was walking between buildings on campus when I noticed a dead mouse lying next to a cigarette butt. I stood there for a few seconds in a daze, not sure what I was looking at. Suddenly I was laughing audibly and, furthermore, I felt completely free from the tension that had been building all week as I wrestled with job-related decisions. I suppose a dead mouse, in and of itself, isn’t all that funny but, for whatever reason, the juxtaposition of the mouse and cig-butt struck me as so absurd, I couldn’t contain myself. My only thought as I headed back to the office was “This is enough.”
As in, this is sufficient, just to be a human being, to breath and notice things and laugh once in a while. I had just interviewed the day before for a fairly well-paying mental health job. Had they offered me the job on the spot I would have accepted, for the simple reason that doing so would end the madness, the struggle not only to find a “permanent” job, but to be fearlessly honest with myself about what I really care about. Somehow, between me and the mouse, I was able to admit that it doesn’t matter to me whether I’m helping suffering people get better (what I’ve done for the better part of fifteen years) or whether I spend all day folding name tents, making copies, and editing course syllabi (what I’m doing at the moment). Truth is, if someone offered me a job with my ideal schedule (30 hours a week or three days off instead of two), I wouldn’t care what I spent my time doing, as long as I could make enough to deal with my expenses.
I mean, I wouldn’t participate in some evil enterprise, like helping to elect John McCain, but as long as the job didn’t stress me out too much and it involved pleasant interactions with people, then I could just as well be a mailman as a therapist. In fact, delivering supplies to various offices on the UNC Campus was probably the most enjoyable job I ever had. Cruising around campus in my beat-up truck, listening to the radio, leisurely strolling up and down the halls with a printer cartridge under my arm, the pleasant exchanges with the front desk workers as they signed the invoices. Too bad it only paid seven bucks an hour, or I might still be doing it.
This job I just interviewed for, it’s serious business, helping abused kids get the appropriate mental health services. It’s so important that you have to carry an emergency pager and be ready to jump in the car 24/7 to save the day in a crisis. Of course, you don’t get holidays off, because human suffering never takes a vacation. Presently, I’m the “Minister of Tedium” for the UNC Office of Whatever. If I put a staple in the wrong corner or use Times New Roman instead of Calibri, it’s no big deal. And I’m kinda liking that. Nothing’s ever really that big a deal.
What do I really want to do? I just want time to “be,” to live. To dick around on my guitar. To write on my blog. To snuggle on the couch with my wife while we watch a stupid romantic comedy. Without exception, I stuck with my previous mental health jobs not because I was “helping people,” but because those jobs fit into an overall life-picture that included a smile on my face. As soon as that smile disappeared, I disappeared. The fact that I was helping people was great, but it was never what kept me showing up day in and day out. I’ll always care about and try to connect with the people in my life. And damn it, that’s enough. In fact, it’s just perfect.