A 22-year-old experiential education facilitator by-way-of art school, employee of an Ivy, vegetarian, procrastinator, and rock-climbing wilderness first responder living in picturesque rural New Jersey. She's holding her breath as she tests her clumsy legs post-college.
I adore being a facilitator. There's always room for improvement as a person and employee, I'm with a lot of people who give feedback that is consistently coming from a caring and thoughtful place and given with love, and I can concentrate on the differences I make in the lives of young people instead of the horrors going on in the world.
And then here is a big AND (because when you say "but" you are negating what you just said).
And despite all those great things, I am dreading going to work a little this morning. I know I'm getting a Memo of Concern on finishing my degree, which just sounds terrifying. Though I was told last week that I am qualified for my job, I still am always worried that I'm about to be sacked. The recent hardship is that I need another Art History class to finish my degree at MICA, and with another one of my co-workers starting grad school, this is not what my employer needed from me; Unlike C's classes, that MICA class is not in the evening or on a weekend, it's smack in the middle of the day and amounts to 12 hours a week just commuting and sitting in Bunting, much less homework or field trips.
So, as I prepare to brave the snowy world outside my door, I am sharing my resolution with you all: I resolve to be like the farmer in my understanding of Karma, that I will create good Karma for being thankful for whatever happens to me, as that is the only thing that could have happened in that space and time. And I know that I need to get my degree, and that PBC wants me to do that but, flatteringly, still needs me.
Now you all know what that Damn. image was about last month. I made a mistake on my degree plan, I need an art history class, but I am still happy and healthy at my current job, where I intend to be for the next few years.