The Kindness of Strangers

I like to go to the post office on Sunday mornings these days. The self-service facilities are great, there are few others there at that time, and I don’t have to stand in line to mail a package anymore. This morning, as I was getting out of my car in the post-office lot, there was a rather pleasant-looking young woman, standing on the sidewalk, waving at me and trying to get my attention. She was probably 20 years old, nicely dressed, but shivering in the cold and wind, nervous, and seemed to be near tears. She timidly asked if she could have some change, as she was trying to get enough together to afford a bus ticket to Salem. She kept saying that she’d never done anything like this before, and that I must “think her weird.” I asked her what the story was, and she said haltingly, in a very quiet voice, that she’d been living up here in Portland for about three weeks, but that her boyfriend had just kicked her out, so she needed to get back to Salem. She said that she thought she’d try asking people for money to see if she could get the sixteen dollars together to pay for the Greyhound to take her south (and “home,” I inferred).

She looked afraid and vulnerable; she was trembling. I very rarely open my pocket or wallet to strangers on the street, but this seemed like a good cause if there ever was one. I had a $5 bill in my wallet, so I extracted it and handed it over to her. She asked if I wanted it mailed back to me, but I said no, wished her luck, and told her to “be safe.”

As I was in the post office, I immediately got to thinking that I should have done more. It was cold out there today. What should I have done? Offered her a ride to the bus station? Paid for her ticket to Salem? Well, yes, to both of those (after) thoughts. I finished up mailing my package, went back out into the lot to find her, but she had disappeared.

I am kicking myself for not thinking faster: for not taking the risk of offering more, and more complete, assistance. Why didn’t I? Why did I hold back? Well, my own fear would appear to be the only answer. I feared the unknown: in terms of getting involved with someone for twenty minutes that I didn’t really know and could turn the tables on me, or enlist me in some kind of bigger “con.” Are those OK reasons?

The Well-Lived Life

This weekend, my brother-in-law Dave (in Rochester, MN) had to have emergency surgery. As I write this, late on a Sunday afternoon, he’s apparently out-of-the-woods and on his way to making a recovery. But, of course, every incident such as this only serves to remind us of the fragility of our existence. It certainly reminds me, anyway.

And, regarding this existence: I’m always questioning about how to make the most appropriate use of the short, short time I have here on Planet Earth. For example, has my decision to be an educator been a sound one? Am I as healthy as I want to be? Am I happy doing what I’m doing and where I’m doing it?

I remember admitting and saying out loud, a couple of years ago now, that I feared that I had chosen the wrong path. Although, academically, I am trained to be a chemist, counselor, or administrator (and actually, now, I am all three), I have long held second thoughts about giving up on the pursuit of photography and/or writing as career choices. My passions certainly lie in those areas, and I believe I am highly skilled in them as well.

As I was leaving the employ of the Oregon University System’s Chancellor’s Office in 2004, I was spending considerable time on weekends doing my own “wandering around photography” (as I call it). I showed off my work to a select few local professionals (mostly the lab folks in Eugene, OR), and they were always impressed at the quality of the work that I produced. I was very happy with it too, but remembered what a struggle it was to try and make a living doing photography (as I had tried in the late 70s, early 80s).

I would love to have more time to engage the passion I have for photography. Although I have skills in many areas, including those of my formal education, I spend a lot of time dreaming about having more time to roam around and take pictures. I’m hopeful that a stable employment situation for me will allow me to continue my life as an educator and to fill the other parts of my soul: as an artist.

Failure, Rejection, Success

I was on another “first date” yesterday...one of those experiences that come my way occasionally because I belong to an online matching website. At one point in the conversation, I referred to my job-search efforts in the last couple years, lamenting, I guess, about how much rejection had been involved. She observed, “well, that’s just part of the process, isn’t it?”

Actually, as I was attempting to be serious and engage in some emotional self-disclosure, this remark struck me as rejection-like in itself: certainly dismissive of my frequent feelings of rejection as I go through this process. I’m not so sure there’s going to be a second date.

Also, yesterday, in response to an email to an old friend in Minnesota where I had stated that I was now “officially discouraged” after two years of attempting to land a permanent position, I was regaled with a story about Thomas Edison.

“I never allow myself to become discouraged under any circumstances.”

After inventing the light bulb and establishing power stations throughout the US and the world, Edison sold all of his holdings in the lighting industry. Using his liquidated assets, he plunged into a venture to increase the yield of iron from New Jersey ore by crushing it and passing it through electromagnets. The process never worked, costing Edison ten years and most of his personal fortune. But Edison had an amazing ability of turning liabilities into assets. Edison used his rock-crushing machinery to enter the cement industry, revolutionizing that industry and becoming the third largest producer of cement in the US. Guess who poured the foundation of Yankee Stadium?

I guess I should be wondering what it is that’s going on...for when I expect someone to “get” a feeling I’m expressing, what I seem to find is someone unable to listen to my experience. Oh, for someone to listen to me! To get me! 

I guess that what this blog is for: someplace I can go to talk, with, hopefully, very little chance of rejection.

 Actually, the stories about Edison are pervasive: 

Thomas Edison was asked if he felt discouraged by the 1,073 failures he had before inventing the electric light bulb. He said “I did not fail 1,073 times. I found 1,073 ways not to do it.”

It appears that I’m on my way to being successful in finding about a thousand ways to not get a job!