I've spent the better part of the last year unhappy.
Not always, not constantly, not every day. But enough to be ungrateful, selfish, petty, a bitch.
I've been unemployed. I've had some minor physical problems that have taken a combined toll. I've fought with my husband and struggled to relate to my child and worried that my cat is getting old.
It's a funny thing, timing. Mine sucks. God's doesn't.
Don't freak, long-time readers. I just mean to say that destiny, fate, God, the noodly Spaghetti Monster tentacles, what have you ... all of these appear to have a sense of humor, and perhaps, at the end of the day, our best interest at heart. I choose God as my vessel of understanding of this. I do not presume to dictate, and would never appoint myself worthy to judge, yours.
The last few days, the sun has come out in my life even as it's disappeared on my 6:30 a.m. drive to work.
A few months ago, as I was trying to convince myself I could sell supplemental insurance for a living (and no offense and much respect to the amazingly motivated and powerful (mostly) women I met while doing so), I got a call. The call was in response to one of my roughly 400 applications to any job with 'media' in its title.
This led to a somewhat incredible story that I hope to find the time and format to tell soon, but suffice it to say for now that it was an opportunity I sometimes (OK, often) had to remind myself to view as such.
Then, just as this particular opportunity had started to feel, at times, like something I could own, I got another call, about something closer and more familiar to my heart (and much more pleasing to my bank account). The question became not what I was going to do, but how I was going to do it. Again, more to come on that later.
The rather nebulous point for now is that, after a very long while, I can feel the clouds lifting. And, to at long rambling last relate to the spirit of this blog, it has something to do with high-fiving my husband as N.C. State won its ACC tournament quarterfinal game, and with texting my daddy as Clemson tries to win its.
It's an undeniable truth that I miss being there, courtside, chronicling the last-second drama or punching up the ho-hum blowout; that my life has felt empty since family members no longer call to say that they saw the back of my head on TV while I sat furiously typing on press row. Yes, I miss it. Yes, I am diminished in some ways that I will never be there again. And yes, I have, at long last, come to functional terms with that statement.
The thing is, I love the words. It is the words that all writers hope will be given life, a life that will last long after their creator is gone - from all reality, or from a particular existence. Once, they were my words, and maybe they will be again. But it is the words themselves, in their singular beauty and in their linguistic wholeness, that make me happy, and the chance to mold them like sticky Play-Doh again has gone a long way towards parting my personal storm clouds.
And so has watching a basketball game with joy, without the clinging barnacles of bitterness that have accompanied just about everything sporting-related since I turned in my building access card and accidentally misplaced my last meaningful lanyard in my year-and-a-half-ago move. So has the slow dissipation of the self-despising mockery I've heard in my head when I've opened my mouth to tell a story, only to realize that my audience has heard it eighteen times before, and the metallic taste of biting down hard on the memory.
Maybe this new path will give me more stories. Maybe the rocky dirt roads, populated with both potholes and welcoming people-billboards beaming like beacons, that led to it will, too.
What I want to celebrate at the moment is my renewed belief in my ability to tell those stories. And in the possibility that the Wolfpack could win another ACC championship.