I was on my lunch-break at work the other day, sitting in the rose garden of the botanical gardens and reading the final instalment of a fetching fantasy novel when I was struck by a genuine existential crisis.
The sun was just this side of too glarey, the paper was just that side of too white and the result was that I kept looking up and away and thinking dangerous thoughts.
I realised, as I sat there, that this was now my life.
Working and mothering.
Mothering and working.
For almost thirty years my life has been defined by periods of work and reward, seasons of deliberate and finite exertion.
Suddenly I found myself facing a never-ending block of activity with no particular point except fiscal reward. I panicked.
I figured out in the days that followed that part of the problem was this sudden shift away from the vocation for which I had been training for the better part of a decade. I had no new work goals to replace the 'dream' of acadaemia with; what, after all, did I want from my work-life?
I think this was part of the panic actually, realising that I was embarking on a life unqualified for anything in particular.
As I write this I begin to fear that the problem really lies in the fact that I have no control over my future. That's so predictable.
Bugger bugger bum.
1 comment:
Yes. Know that crisis well. Usually results in me having too much wine, screaming at the universe and taking up something new. Still flirting with the idea of heading towards a meaningful job (that also pays decently). Slow food gardening workshops? Vegan cooking classes? Do voiceless.org need an all-rounder? Am trying to sell my own garden produce today as a mini-step:-) Sigh. I hate existentialism.
Post a Comment