Rocinante

And purple bliss

Almost exactly two years ago I left behind a hard-working life of building: structure, community, standards, education, even a profession. My father has compared me to Don Quijote, slightly mad and tilting at windmills. I suspect I’m more Rocinante, his faithful workhorse and, as Wikipedia cites, “awkward, past his prime, and engaged in a task beyond his capabilities.”

Even though the barn doors are open, the horse has not, apparently, completely left the stable. 

I have accepted a job, one I’m not yet at liberty to name, developing education and certification for dog training that will allow me, for one last time, to try to bring together the best in the industry.

The windmills I run toward have always been unmoving and unwilling to share space, waving their arms around trying to scoop up what they can but never embracing. This has harmed the people spending their time and money working to be acknowledged as the professionals they are by a world that doesn’t really care which windmill claims them. Imposter syndrome is rampant and deadly in the training world.

So I said yes to this job for one more once into the abyss. Yes to professional standards, education, skill, and meaningful certification that includes some of the work already done by excellent people and organizations.

Yes to maybe making a difference in a positive way.

I took the job on the condition that I would not cede my hard-won new life to the past. I feel like I’m just starting to get this writing thing a bit, meaning I’ve moved from unconsciously incompetent to consciously incompetent—a breakthrough! Yesterday was the last “get something published” class, leaving me with three pieces to rewrite and shop by the end of August. 

Tl;dr I did not get something published. But I submitted something, and have yet to (not) hear back. Progress?

August second the moving truck delivers stuff to the Provincetown house, which will not have a certificate of occupancy yet, or be done, but it’ll be close to done. The furniture companies won’t hold stuff any longer, so August second it is.

So new job, new life, new house, new goddamned dog, but same need for a 48-hour day. 

Some things never change.

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Morning Teaistisms

I was working and on Zoom meetings from 7:00 am until 8:30 pm yesterday, which gave me plenty of time to idly browse the internet for tea. As one does.

This one caught my eye, first because of the color, but then because the description was so spectacularly terrible.

Our Purple Papayaberry tea is an amethyst infusion of fruity deliciousness. Served hot, it is a comforting cup of purple bliss. Served iced, it is as refreshing as getting caught in a papaya and blackberry rainstorm on a hot summer day. Purple rain! Final color may vary, add lemon juice to enhance the purple depth of color! Makes 32 ounces.

I have so many questions. What is purple bliss? Wouldn’t a papaya and blackberry rainstorm hurt? Papayas can get really big. Is there blackberry in the tea? What about amethyst? That seems…crunchy. Do they know “purple rain” is about the end of the world¹? It was the “final color may vary” that did it.

Of course I ordered some.

1. “When there’s blood in the sky… red and blue = purple. Purple rain pertains to the end of the world and being with the one you love and letting your faith/God guide you through the purple rain,” Prince said of the song’s meaning.