Rolling silver

Today on my lunch break, I walked to a little made-to-order pizza place two blocks from my office. While waiting for my small pesto-broccoli-red pepper-mushroom-and-spinach pie to come from the fiery inferno, I grabbed some plastic silverware and tossed the fork and knife diagonally across a napkin, rolling the napkin around the utensils. Then I smiled, catching what I'd done, what anyone who's ever worked in the food service industry will recognize. I just rolled silver.

It seems like a lifetime ago since I returned to waiting tables for the first time since I was 26 when I lost my job in 2011. Then, rolling silver became a rote activity - something I could practically do in my sleep. Rolling silver was both a blessing and a curse. Like all side work, it was admittedly a pain in the ass and a mandatory requirement for all servers, a necessary evil. But it also signaled the end of a shift and sometimes brought with it the welcomed relief of sitting down.

Ah, sitting down. Such a luxury to those in the service industry. How we take this simple thing for granted. I often grumble now in my job as a writer that sitting all day at a computer and desk will be the death of me.

When I inadvertently 'rolled silver' today, I remembered to be grateful for how far I've come since those days waiting tables, and not to take what I have for granted. I've worked hard to get where I am, and I'm still not satisfied. But I am thankful for the year I went back to waiting tables, because it taught me humility and just how strong I can be. It taught me to be thankful for everything and not take anything for granted.

Namaste

Cracked

In the summer of 1996, when most people in their early 20's were partying or falling in love, I attended cadaver lab at the medical school nearby. Like "Henry," the nickname we gave the 58 year old man who had donated his body to science - and to us - the experience cracked me open.

Henry's last meal was corn. And, as we cut into the meaty area to remove and dissect his lungs, he exhaled. We had taken his last breath. Despite the sterile unemotional environment of cadaver lab, I couldn't abandon my poetic brain. I wanted to know his story. How did he die? How did he live? Did he love? Was he happy? Heartbroken? Angry? What kept him awake at night? Did his hands once embrace children and a wife?

Students aren't given any information about the cause of death in cadaver lab; that's part of the learning process: to discover how your cadaver passed from this life. We were only given very basic information: age, race, demographics.

I was struck immediately with how vulnerable and fragile we are when I learned how easily fascia, the thin fibrous connective tissue that surrounds muscle, tears away; I thought in metaphors. Fascia was like the finest linen, lungs like sponge. And yet, for all of our vulnerability, I marveled at our resilience as I learned Henry had survived open heart surgery, the staples still embedded in his chest.

One of my favorite lines in all of literature comes from the 18th and final chapter of James Joyce's Ulysses. It is often referred to as Molly Bloom's soliloquy. In the passage, among other things, Molly Bloom says "...and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes ..."

Sometimes, all we have to do is say a resounding "yes" to what we are offered to be transformed. 

I have been thinking a lot about Henry lately and the experiences I took away from cadaver lab because, now 17 years later, I have returned to that medical school. And once again, I feel cracked open. With gratitude.

After nearly two years of the highs and lows that have come with my unemployement journey, I applied and was offered a job via that same medical school.

The position is through an AmeriCorps grant funneled through the medical school. It is essentially a pipeline project to guide and encourage middle school and high school age students in rural communities toward careers in healthcare. This week was my first week.

During training, I sat in a room with physicians counselors and students discussing things like how to guide teens into lucrative areas of study, how to help them make decisions to avoid astronomical student loan debts, and the factors that affect the demographic who enters medical school.

This was a far cry from chicken marsala.

This is important work. Work I can believe in and be proud of. Meaningful work. Work that has the potential to shape future generations of physicians, surgeons, nurses and psychologists.

But, if I'm being honest, I would make more if I continued to dish out chicken marsala.

I entered college in 1992 as a biology major. In my second or third semester, I took organic chemistry and received a D. I decided then to switch my major to English and embrace who I was, who I had always been.

But, just because we are good with words and not with numbers does not mean we cannot shape and contribute to the world in positive meaningful ways. Just because we serve chicken marsala doesn't mean we cannot contribute to the world in positive meaningful ways.

We all have the ability to give, contribute, guide and transform when we are willing to dig deep, be true to ourselves and give a resounding "Yes!" to what we are offered.

I have been cracked open once again. I've learned during this period how vulnerable I can be, but also how resilient. I might not make much money. But I am so thankful for who I am and for being true to myself. I am thankful for parents who allowed me to not fit into the box, who celebrated who I was and continue to be for all of my quirky idiosyncrasies.

I have to believe that, if I continue to say "Yes!" the world will provide the rest.

Mimosas and martinis: the fine madness of waiting tables

Rejection letters always start off the same. Thank you for your interest. After careful consideration, we've chosen another candidate. blah blah blah blah.

My "stack" - rejection letters

I've started a small collection of rejection letters. Some may say this is masochistic. I thought so, too, when I'd heard of people saving rejection letters in the past. A friend once saved every rejection letter he'd received from the literary journals he'd submitted work to.

Each letter (and a lot of them are electronic, so I don't have hard copies) is a reminder of something I wanted, something I invested and believed in. And, I have to believe that with each rejection comes the possibility of honing my skills, building character, an opportunity to adapt and add grace to my life.

I started waiting tables two weeks ago, and so far, here's what I know: it's a hella more difficult to wait tables at 40 than it was at 25. But, I walked in on a Monday to fill out an application, and walked back into the same restaurant on Wednesday ready to serve. It's a fairly swanky, one-of-a-kind local place where people order mimosas with Sunday brunch and martinis with Porterhouse steaks.

Here's what else I know: you have to be willing. When you are willing, opportunities present themselves. 

Author Cheryl Strayed said in Tiny Beautiful Things: Advice on Love and Life from Dear Sugar, “Most things will be okay eventually, but not everything will be. Sometimes you'll put up a good fight and lose. Sometimes you'll hold on really hard and realize there is no choice but to let go. Acceptance is a small, quiet room.”

My small quiet room is a bustling room of mimosas and martinis, of chicken marsalas and porterhouse steaks, of American Express and Visa. And every day I'm hustling.

For whatever reason, this is what presented itself to me at this time. I've chosen to embrace it with love and as much grace as I can muster. I have to believe there is a method to the madness.

I'm lying on my hammock half dozing, lulled by a warm breeze that sways the hammock gently from side to side. Above me, tiny buds emerge from the small stand of dogwood trees that support the hammock cradling me; beyond the branches, the sky is a delicious azure. Bald eagles screech and  red-winged black birds call from trees surrounding the Ranch's seven acres.

I am savoring this day off and have vowed to stay off my feet -- and outside -- as much as possible. I've curled up with a copy of Kathleen Norris's The Cloister Walk,  which seems perfect.

I open the book to a random page, and find this:

“Prayer is not asking for what you think you want, but asking to be changed in ways you can't imagine.”

Amen. 

Thanks to my friend Jim for recommending The Cloister Walk.