Friday … A Glimmer of Hope
I spent my afternoon today in pursuit of a job.
That doesn’t sound very productive, does it? In actuality, I’ve been pursuing every opportunity that came my way over the course of the last several weeks, but I haven’t really had any serious offers to tender until recently. One of them is a contract-to-hire situation, which is a fancy way of saying temp-to-perm, but when you’re an IT professional, those terms aren’t used. So it’s a possible full-time, permanent job, the first I’ve been offered in more than three years.
However, that one hasn’t panned out very well. I haven’t heard anything about it, so the possibility seems vague and dim. I was excited about it, but if it’s not going anywhere, I have no choice but to pursue other options.
The second is a long-term contract -- my understanding is 12 months with the possibility of extension. So, over the last week or so, I’ve made the necessary motions to get that taken care of and line up the ducks. I’ve seen the recruiter for our face-to-face meeting, and at last, I had my interview for the position today.
I should be happy about it, but in truth, I’m just concerned. My original scheduled interview was Tuesday, but it was cancelled because the hiring manager was ill. No problem; I set up a new interview for today at 2 p.m.
The client is a large, multi-national corporation with several buildings in the area. I was to go to one that was actually a rented space within another company’s building. I was to go to the receptionist, ask for the manager and wait in the lobby. Simple enough.
When I got there, I arrived with about 20 minutes to spare. I didn’t know if there was some paperwork, application or something like that, which would have to be filled out before the interview. I didn’t want to hold the meeting up by having to fill out paperwork and having it take longer than it should, so I got there with time to spare. I saw the receptionist and was sent to a reception phone that was specifically for the company; I dialed the number and got the interviewer’s voice mail. I left a message, and sat down.
After about 20 minutes, the receptionist asked if I wanted to call again. I told her no, that the manager had another interview before mine, and it may have run a bit over. In 15 more minutes, though, I realized something may have been missed. I knew that he’d had to cancel one meeting already; it was possible he’d not yet returned to work and that I hadn’t been told. So, in my best professional voice, I left a second voice mail.
I waited a few more minutes, then contacted the on-site IT manager for the recruiting firm. I told him what was happening -- or rather, what wasn’t happening -- and he explained that the meeting that was to take place at 1 p.m. hadn’t happened either. There was a mad scramble to locate the hiring manager, and try to straighten things out. I told him that I would be there for another five minutes or so, then I would leave and we could reschedule for more convenient time.
Well, long story short, the man wanted me to come to a different location. It was only a short distance down the same street, but still … what was wrong with the original arrangement? So I capitulated, and drove to the appointed building. I arrived directly behind the interviewer. He greeted me, when he found out who I was, and apologized for the confusion. He also informed me that he had one person ahead of me (who was also standing there), and that he would meet with me immediately upon completion of that interview. He escorted me up an escalator and then asked me to sit in a small seating area in the middle of the hallway.
I watched people and looked at the building for several minutes when I noticed them coming back. They caught my gaze. “We’re still looking for a room,” the interviewer called, trying to sound joking. After another few minutes of pacing about, he and the interviewee settled into the seating area some fifteen feet away from me. There, in the middle of the hallway, he conducted the interview.
At first, I was uncomfortable with that idea; there were to be questions asked, information gathered, things said … who knew what was going to be overheard? When it came my turn to interview, however, I realized I had nothing to fear.
The conversation was brief; I was with him for perhaps 30 minutes, while he went through his background, some background on the company, described the position and the tools used (customized for his group by some other group), and that was it. There was no questioning my background, there was no technical quiz to be answered on the fly, there was no “how would you handle this?” type of questioning … nothing.
I left without knowing, and still don’t, how that interview went. It was brief … it was less than professional … and it was confusing. But I remain optimistic.
I hope that those of you who pray will continue to do so. Those of you that have wished us well and supported us, thank you too. God bless you all.
-JDT-
Friday, December 09, 2005
Monday, November 07, 2005
Monday - Once More into the Breach ...
When I was a child, I remember seeing my father, and thinking that he always looked so sad.
It took me years to finally figure out why he looked that way, but eventually I did. I think most of us, though by all means not all of us, don’t necessarily want to acknowledge the ugly truths in our past. It’s especially difficult when we have to face the failings of those for whom we are taught not to find fault. Our parents are somehow above all the things that make people human. It’s only mortality that makes us face the fact that they’re human.
In general, but not always; some of us have to deal with the fact that they’re not only human, but very flawed ones, well before that. I am one such.
I realized my father looked sad because he was always struggling financially, emotionally, and eventually medically. He was fighting an uphill battle against a foe he could not defeat, and would not retreat from for whatever reason(s). He looked sad because he was sad. He was sad that his life had gone the way it did without, at least in his mind, any recourse for him to take.
In August of 2002, my wife and I suffered a traumatic event in our lives that would change it forever. At first, we felt that this was a fresh opportunity, a new chance to do things with our lives that wouldn’t have been possible before. We soon learned, however, that this was not the case. It was a cataclysm of unparalleled proportions in our life together and it left only ruins and wreckage in its wake like a tsunami. While the devastation was initially only financial, it soon spread and left us emotionally and mentally wounded and reeling. It left us physically drained and exhausted, and it would be years before we began to recover.
Before that recovery began, we were treated to horrors in the name of "love" that I can't begin to describe. We were stripped of everything we had materially, and stripped of our dignity. We were accused of being liars, and thieves, of abandoning our children, of seeking a way out of debt into a "new lifestyle." We were accused of not trying to resolve our situation though we suffered devastation and financial hardships trying. We were accosted at every turn, chased and eventually run out of our only "refuge" into the world. Those circumstances left us with nothing and no one to aid us.
Through it all, we tried to have faith. Repeatedly, that faith failed us and left us falling into the chasm that opened beneath us.
We finally felt that, despite the awful losses we’d been dealt, we could endure and that our lives were getting back on track in May of 2004. That never really manifested, though, and we are now once again staring into the face of the same overwhelming forces that nearly destroyed us before. What little support structure we had in years past is gone now, and should we fall, the fall will be much longer, farther and greater than before. We have absolutely no safety net now.
I sit and live my life in fear, and each moment that goes by is spent battling those palpitations of my heart and pulse that shoot burning harpoons of adrenaline coursing through my veins. I sleep fitfully, listlessly, and without rest. I can’t relax and just enjoy myself, because the future continually becomes the present and thence past, with each clock tick bringing doom closer to my doorstep once again. And I hear my son’s voice as he plays, and watch my infant daughter as she sleeps, and wonder for how much longer that will be my privilege. And I become very sad.
I wonder if one day soon, my children will look back on life and say, “My father always looked so sad …”
If you're praying people, pray for us please.
-JDT-
It took me years to finally figure out why he looked that way, but eventually I did. I think most of us, though by all means not all of us, don’t necessarily want to acknowledge the ugly truths in our past. It’s especially difficult when we have to face the failings of those for whom we are taught not to find fault. Our parents are somehow above all the things that make people human. It’s only mortality that makes us face the fact that they’re human.
In general, but not always; some of us have to deal with the fact that they’re not only human, but very flawed ones, well before that. I am one such.
I realized my father looked sad because he was always struggling financially, emotionally, and eventually medically. He was fighting an uphill battle against a foe he could not defeat, and would not retreat from for whatever reason(s). He looked sad because he was sad. He was sad that his life had gone the way it did without, at least in his mind, any recourse for him to take.
In August of 2002, my wife and I suffered a traumatic event in our lives that would change it forever. At first, we felt that this was a fresh opportunity, a new chance to do things with our lives that wouldn’t have been possible before. We soon learned, however, that this was not the case. It was a cataclysm of unparalleled proportions in our life together and it left only ruins and wreckage in its wake like a tsunami. While the devastation was initially only financial, it soon spread and left us emotionally and mentally wounded and reeling. It left us physically drained and exhausted, and it would be years before we began to recover.
Before that recovery began, we were treated to horrors in the name of "love" that I can't begin to describe. We were stripped of everything we had materially, and stripped of our dignity. We were accused of being liars, and thieves, of abandoning our children, of seeking a way out of debt into a "new lifestyle." We were accused of not trying to resolve our situation though we suffered devastation and financial hardships trying. We were accosted at every turn, chased and eventually run out of our only "refuge" into the world. Those circumstances left us with nothing and no one to aid us.
Through it all, we tried to have faith. Repeatedly, that faith failed us and left us falling into the chasm that opened beneath us.
We finally felt that, despite the awful losses we’d been dealt, we could endure and that our lives were getting back on track in May of 2004. That never really manifested, though, and we are now once again staring into the face of the same overwhelming forces that nearly destroyed us before. What little support structure we had in years past is gone now, and should we fall, the fall will be much longer, farther and greater than before. We have absolutely no safety net now.
I sit and live my life in fear, and each moment that goes by is spent battling those palpitations of my heart and pulse that shoot burning harpoons of adrenaline coursing through my veins. I sleep fitfully, listlessly, and without rest. I can’t relax and just enjoy myself, because the future continually becomes the present and thence past, with each clock tick bringing doom closer to my doorstep once again. And I hear my son’s voice as he plays, and watch my infant daughter as she sleeps, and wonder for how much longer that will be my privilege. And I become very sad.
I wonder if one day soon, my children will look back on life and say, “My father always looked so sad …”
If you're praying people, pray for us please.
-JDT-
Sunday, October 30, 2005
Sunday ... Inertia
In thinking about the last two weeks, I’ve been realizing that I’m prone to inertia. A body at rest tends to stay at rest.
That physics principle is a guiding universal one, but how is it that, at nearly four decades old, I still haven’t managed to find a way around that for myself?
As a case in point, the force that brought me to rest was a serious cold or flu; I know not which it was, but it was hard. I missed a few days of work, but with my income dependent on my ability to log hours, I hadn’t the luxury of actually recuperating. As such, it likely took longer to recover than it should have. Not to mention other mitigating factors.
In the end, the result was that I came home from work exhausted. Between trying to help my wife raise our children and life just being lived, and having no one that can offer us help for whatever reason(s), I simply didn’t have the energy or desire to do anything after work. I was in bed normally by 10:30 p.m., and slept most of the night through. Get up and repeat the cycle the following day. The weekends were spent recovering from the week’s activities. Grocery delivery services are wonderful, I can tell you.
Here I am, feeling MUCH better, but still unable to draw. I just have no motivation. I come home from work, I play with the kids a bit, eat, and then plop myself into a chair to stare at the television for the rest of the night. It’s not something I’m proud of or pleased about, and yet there seems to be little I can do about it. I’ve posted some older work (meaning within the last few months) on various art boards, hoping something that someone said would motivate me to keep my pencil moving, but that hasn’t happened. I’m just … blocked.
I’ve heard a lot of artists going through similar things, but they seem to come out of it, and I can’t figure out what they’re doing, how they’re doing it and what I should do to break this stasis. It’s torturing me to have finally, after nearly nine years, reconnected with my artwork and not be able to find the time, motivation and the willingness to just grab a pencil and sketch. I’ve been close, but not close enough. It’s similar to writer’s block, but isn’t from lack of an idea or inspiration – although that’s a distinct part of it. I just … don’t draw, and the days slip ceaselessly away from me. Another finite and irreplaceable chunk of lifetime is lost to cursed inertia.
I don’t know how this will end, and I don’t know when I’ll break through this mental barrier (and I am convince it is mental), but I want to find a way. I need something that sparks me enough to at least finish some of the drawings that I’ve started, and left unfinished, but I have no idea what that something may be. This is the first time, in my memory, that I can remember running into this with my art – in other areas, it’s a somewhat regular occurrence and I know how to cure it. My wife is usually good for some insight here, but even there I’ve come up empty.
If you have an answer, I’m open to hearing it – though saying “draw through it” isn’t an option. I need more than that to get from here to there. That solution would help for feeling as though I’ve stagnated in progress, but does nothing for this quagmire.
God bless, everyone, and thanks for reading this if you did. Suggestions are welcomed and gratitude to those that make them.
That physics principle is a guiding universal one, but how is it that, at nearly four decades old, I still haven’t managed to find a way around that for myself?
As a case in point, the force that brought me to rest was a serious cold or flu; I know not which it was, but it was hard. I missed a few days of work, but with my income dependent on my ability to log hours, I hadn’t the luxury of actually recuperating. As such, it likely took longer to recover than it should have. Not to mention other mitigating factors.
In the end, the result was that I came home from work exhausted. Between trying to help my wife raise our children and life just being lived, and having no one that can offer us help for whatever reason(s), I simply didn’t have the energy or desire to do anything after work. I was in bed normally by 10:30 p.m., and slept most of the night through. Get up and repeat the cycle the following day. The weekends were spent recovering from the week’s activities. Grocery delivery services are wonderful, I can tell you.
Here I am, feeling MUCH better, but still unable to draw. I just have no motivation. I come home from work, I play with the kids a bit, eat, and then plop myself into a chair to stare at the television for the rest of the night. It’s not something I’m proud of or pleased about, and yet there seems to be little I can do about it. I’ve posted some older work (meaning within the last few months) on various art boards, hoping something that someone said would motivate me to keep my pencil moving, but that hasn’t happened. I’m just … blocked.
I’ve heard a lot of artists going through similar things, but they seem to come out of it, and I can’t figure out what they’re doing, how they’re doing it and what I should do to break this stasis. It’s torturing me to have finally, after nearly nine years, reconnected with my artwork and not be able to find the time, motivation and the willingness to just grab a pencil and sketch. I’ve been close, but not close enough. It’s similar to writer’s block, but isn’t from lack of an idea or inspiration – although that’s a distinct part of it. I just … don’t draw, and the days slip ceaselessly away from me. Another finite and irreplaceable chunk of lifetime is lost to cursed inertia.
I don’t know how this will end, and I don’t know when I’ll break through this mental barrier (and I am convince it is mental), but I want to find a way. I need something that sparks me enough to at least finish some of the drawings that I’ve started, and left unfinished, but I have no idea what that something may be. This is the first time, in my memory, that I can remember running into this with my art – in other areas, it’s a somewhat regular occurrence and I know how to cure it. My wife is usually good for some insight here, but even there I’ve come up empty.
If you have an answer, I’m open to hearing it – though saying “draw through it” isn’t an option. I need more than that to get from here to there. That solution would help for feeling as though I’ve stagnated in progress, but does nothing for this quagmire.
God bless, everyone, and thanks for reading this if you did. Suggestions are welcomed and gratitude to those that make them.
Thursday, October 27, 2005
I Did Something Right ... and Something Wrong
I never seem to get things just ... right.
I tried to update an image on my DeviantArt page, and ended up deleting it -- along with all the wonderful comments, encouragement, tips and other helpful remarks make by those that took time and effort to look at the damned thing for me.
I feel like a heel. On the upside, I got some input from someone to enable me to move the image, resize it, and eliminate the sketch lines in gray from the image. So, it's up and running as a nice B/W piece now, and it's finished (albeit it's not wonderful).
Thanks to any and all that saw the original, took time to comment, and gave me advice. I'm so sorry I lost those things.
And above all things, I hate stupidity. Yet we are close companions, he and I.
God bless, everyone. I'll update soon. And here's the new image:
I tried to update an image on my DeviantArt page, and ended up deleting it -- along with all the wonderful comments, encouragement, tips and other helpful remarks make by those that took time and effort to look at the damned thing for me.
I feel like a heel. On the upside, I got some input from someone to enable me to move the image, resize it, and eliminate the sketch lines in gray from the image. So, it's up and running as a nice B/W piece now, and it's finished (albeit it's not wonderful).
Thanks to any and all that saw the original, took time to comment, and gave me advice. I'm so sorry I lost those things.
And above all things, I hate stupidity. Yet we are close companions, he and I.
God bless, everyone. I'll update soon. And here's the new image:
Monday, October 17, 2005
A Night To Remember ... Sunday
A woman I'd never seen before in my life came to me tonight while I was out on my back deck enjoying the crisp, cool autumn evening.
She asked me if I'd seen a little boy.
I was a bit shocked. It turns out that the little boy was missing. No one knew where he was.
I told her my wife had seen him, sitting on his bright yellow plastic chair on the second floor balcony of his apartment. They spoke for a few minutes. When she came in, she told me she was worried. It didn't seem like much. Hours later, this woman, a friend of the parents, was looking for him. He was not in the apartment, which was on the second floor, and he wasn't accessible to anyone else that they knew who may have him. The mother was at work.
I was, instantly, sticken and worried. The boy in question was one that I'd seen from time to time with his dad, in the parking lot, walking together. He was younger than my own son, who will be four next month. I told the woman that I would get a flashlight and help her look; it had been hours since my wife saw him.
The father was looking for the boy. He was young, and explained to me that the little boy was wearing a red and cream set of pajamas. He gave the boy's name. I didn't ask if they'd contacted the police. I knew they hadn't; I just began wandering around the grounds, shining my flashlight in corners and bushes, under cars, behind air conditioner units -- anywhere I could think of in which a small child may have hidden ... or worse.
I prayed. I prayed frantically, distractedly. My heart was pounding. As I wandered around a stand of tall, wild grass, which looked like a patch of reeds beside a water hole, I was scared. I was scared to see that flash of color, some indication that something terrible had happened. I prayed and tromped, feeling my feet get wet as the water in the wet ground sopped into my worn shoes. I shone the light into the grass deeply, staring with eyes that did not want to see. It was horrible. I could feel my pulse in my temples, in my stomach, in my throat ... and I could hear myself muttering to God quietly for everything to be okay, not to let this be what it could be.
I came back and was met by the father; he asked if I'd found anything. I said I hadn't, but that his flashlight was better, and perhaps we could look together. We walked around the building again silently, not speaking, each of us shining our lights into the ominous dark places that can conceal evil deeds.
We worked through the immediate parking lot and the mother came home, hurried and trying to be upbeat. She greeted me with a subdued "hi," as she moved to ask if the little boy had been found yet. Her arms folded across her chest told me the answer though I could not hear.
The haunted look in their eyes was what struck me most. It sent shivers down my spine. Another stranger joined the search, and we worked our way farther away from our building. The night seemed colder, darker than before. I shivered again as the hushed mood and whispers continued.
It was more than half an hour later now. We'd looked in every possible nook and cranny around the buildings. There was no sign of him. The woman that approached me, the friend of the father, rejoined us with that same hollow, zombie stare in her eyes. No one wanted to think it; wanted even less to say it. She quietly suggested that perhaps the next step was to contact the police.
The father silently pulled his cell phone out and dialed. I trailed behind the two of them, as the mother came up from behind me, her arms still folded over her chest. Her steps were rushed, urgent, her voice tight and controlled. She called to the father and asked me to whom he was speaking. I told her I didn't know, but he'd made a call to someone. She hurried past me. In a moment, I heard the voices rise, excitement.
The boy had been found. He was at the local police station.
I nearly collapsed. I tightened my throat to keep from weeping.
It was more excitement than I wanted on a Sunday at nearly ten o'clock. But I prayed jubilantly and in gratitude for the boy being found safely. When I came into our home, the look on my wife's face told me she'd been praying intensely too. My smile told her everything. I felt the relief wash through me as I told her what had transpired.
We spent the rest of the evening being as near to our children as we could get.
I'm so glad, so grateful Lord, that this time, it turned out well. Far, far too often, it does not.
Thank you, Lord.
She asked me if I'd seen a little boy.
I was a bit shocked. It turns out that the little boy was missing. No one knew where he was.
I told her my wife had seen him, sitting on his bright yellow plastic chair on the second floor balcony of his apartment. They spoke for a few minutes. When she came in, she told me she was worried. It didn't seem like much. Hours later, this woman, a friend of the parents, was looking for him. He was not in the apartment, which was on the second floor, and he wasn't accessible to anyone else that they knew who may have him. The mother was at work.
I was, instantly, sticken and worried. The boy in question was one that I'd seen from time to time with his dad, in the parking lot, walking together. He was younger than my own son, who will be four next month. I told the woman that I would get a flashlight and help her look; it had been hours since my wife saw him.
The father was looking for the boy. He was young, and explained to me that the little boy was wearing a red and cream set of pajamas. He gave the boy's name. I didn't ask if they'd contacted the police. I knew they hadn't; I just began wandering around the grounds, shining my flashlight in corners and bushes, under cars, behind air conditioner units -- anywhere I could think of in which a small child may have hidden ... or worse.
I prayed. I prayed frantically, distractedly. My heart was pounding. As I wandered around a stand of tall, wild grass, which looked like a patch of reeds beside a water hole, I was scared. I was scared to see that flash of color, some indication that something terrible had happened. I prayed and tromped, feeling my feet get wet as the water in the wet ground sopped into my worn shoes. I shone the light into the grass deeply, staring with eyes that did not want to see. It was horrible. I could feel my pulse in my temples, in my stomach, in my throat ... and I could hear myself muttering to God quietly for everything to be okay, not to let this be what it could be.
I came back and was met by the father; he asked if I'd found anything. I said I hadn't, but that his flashlight was better, and perhaps we could look together. We walked around the building again silently, not speaking, each of us shining our lights into the ominous dark places that can conceal evil deeds.
We worked through the immediate parking lot and the mother came home, hurried and trying to be upbeat. She greeted me with a subdued "hi," as she moved to ask if the little boy had been found yet. Her arms folded across her chest told me the answer though I could not hear.
The haunted look in their eyes was what struck me most. It sent shivers down my spine. Another stranger joined the search, and we worked our way farther away from our building. The night seemed colder, darker than before. I shivered again as the hushed mood and whispers continued.
It was more than half an hour later now. We'd looked in every possible nook and cranny around the buildings. There was no sign of him. The woman that approached me, the friend of the father, rejoined us with that same hollow, zombie stare in her eyes. No one wanted to think it; wanted even less to say it. She quietly suggested that perhaps the next step was to contact the police.
The father silently pulled his cell phone out and dialed. I trailed behind the two of them, as the mother came up from behind me, her arms still folded over her chest. Her steps were rushed, urgent, her voice tight and controlled. She called to the father and asked me to whom he was speaking. I told her I didn't know, but he'd made a call to someone. She hurried past me. In a moment, I heard the voices rise, excitement.
The boy had been found. He was at the local police station.
I nearly collapsed. I tightened my throat to keep from weeping.
It was more excitement than I wanted on a Sunday at nearly ten o'clock. But I prayed jubilantly and in gratitude for the boy being found safely. When I came into our home, the look on my wife's face told me she'd been praying intensely too. My smile told her everything. I felt the relief wash through me as I told her what had transpired.
We spent the rest of the evening being as near to our children as we could get.
I'm so glad, so grateful Lord, that this time, it turned out well. Far, far too often, it does not.
Thank you, Lord.
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