#11: A Month for the Books

A month has slipped by in ghostly fashion and somehow every single day carries weight in stone. The temperature has slowly dropped, humidity subsided, leaves turned and piled high along root edges, chicken stock bubbled on the stovetop, Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg passed away, Louisville police officers were released from charges of the murder of Breonna Taylor, fires kept burning down the West, and POTUS got COVID. It’s a guarantee these weeks will hold historic value. I’ve written about it everywhere I can think to. Mostly so my (someday) offspring can be handed the truth in pen scratches, when my mind can no longer hold on to it.

I started a position a little over 2 weeks ago in a small town outside of Eau Claire. My position title is Activities Director for a retirement facility, or “Director of Fun,” as a dear friend corrected. This would be the first position of its kind on my resume. The job is a typical 40 hour per week, Monday-Friday position but without any of the typical-ness of said job. My dad called it “a ministry” the other day on the phone and that really stuck with me. Everyday I am greeted with stories. Some are spun from dreams or worries, non-sensical words, colorful memories of the past, a fear of death or a need for it. At the end of the day, I am a stiff drink’s worth of exhaustedly in-love and needlessly concerned, but also fulfilled to the brim.

My adult career was formulated around working with children and teenagers. My task was to teach them music but also to guide them as they inched into this big world. Now, I am seeing the flip of the coin; one might go as far to say the end. I’ve witnessed the gamut of humanity in just 14 days. Those that have worked in this field smirk at me regularly. Some even shake their head, questioning constantly why I am doing this or that. And man, do I love those people! Those folx light a sky-high bonfire under my ass to prove them anything but right.

Is this job it? Is this my calling? Too soon to tell. All I wish is to share these withering, calloused hands with the world.