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Another gauntlet picked up by The Black Tortoise: NaBloPoMo (National Blog Post Month) Every work day of June I will be posting something here or on Once A Little Girl. I will abstain from posting on Saturday and Sunday. Those are my days of ReWoMeN (ReconnectWorshipMeditateNap.)
I plan short, to the point posts, which are a little low on pictures. Part of the time I’ll be traveling with three sister and a mom. Sorry in advance if some of my posts are just too darned personal. On the other hand, some of you may like a little insight into the personal side of The Black Tortoise.
So, with that as a starter, here’s a bit about my upcoming trip.
I’ve been in mourning. Mourning the loss of my freedom. Wishing to have more without giving anything up. I made a list of all the things that make be cry when I think about leaving my business of free-lance writing and consulting: long commutes, walking in my yard anytime I want, my office, lunch with Loved-One, fluidity…
I know, I know. In these economic times, I should be happy that I have this opportunity. Especially, since I was minding my own business and two, yes, two firms contacted me. I’m really am sooo lucky.
So why do I feel sad?
Many of us face Father’s Day without our Dads. Even for an adult, the process of losing of a father can leave us adrift and bereft. On an intellectual level, we know it’s inevitable, yet the reality can hit us with a tornado of emotions, and sometimes when we least expect it. This piece was written as my Dad was dying, twelve years ago this year. I mark the years by the age of my first grand-daughter. My son placed his newborn daughter in the crook of her great-grandpa’s arms, the day before he dyed. I’ll never forget the look of pure joy on Dad’s face and the way he squeezed little Emma close to his heart.
When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, and I thought as a child. But when I became an adult, I grew far beyond my childhood, and now I have put away the childish ways.
– 1 Corinthians 13, 11
This verse keeps running through my mind. The one persistent thought among a kaleidoscope of memories that wash over me like waves against a lone rock on the beach. Each time the passage enters my consciousness; I end it with this thought: I was about eight when I put away my childish ways.
When I was brand new at the job I’ve had for nearly a decade, I called one of my best friends. She’s been my friend since grade school.
“I’m the Most Responsible Person.” I explain, over the phone, about my new position as head of Regulatory Affairs for a small pharmaceutical company. “Whenever I submit papers to the Agency, there’s a line that asks for ‘the most responsible person’. That’s me!”
This woman, who’s known me for so long, laughs a deep, from the belly laugh. “You’ve been