According to conventional wisdom, I would have secured a new job, a better job, before leaving my current one. I could have, should have, leveraged this one for more pay, more benefits, more….just more.
Even before welcoming my new supervisor at work, I felt my time was growing short and when cursory forays into employment listings yielded nothing that sparked joy in my heart, I decided to take my husband up on his offer. “Come home,” he said, “I’ve gone over the budget. There won’t be extra, but we can pay the bills.”
And so a letter of resignation wrote itself and somehow I got through these last two weeks, even as pangs of sadness at the thought of all the friends I would miss seeing on a daily basis reverberated on top of leaving the cooking skills education program I had built from scratch. Because behind all that a spark of excitement glimmered, beckoning me to more.
I figure I outgrew my container.
I read a story years ago, a very short, very old story. And I have re-read it every year at least once quite in spite of myself. You see, it’s not the kind of story that could be written nowadays without backlash of the most angry and venomous stripe. It can be taken the wrong way, criticized, and perhaps worst of all, dismissed.
But I never could dismiss it.
Its ideals danced around the edges of my thoughts, tempting me like the fragrance of a rose with visions of sweet, strange things. Things like “gardens in early summer dusk…quiet, orderly rooms and ticking clocks and a mending basket under the evening lamp…the peaceful routine of a well-managed household.”
I am quietly celebrating my “repotting” to full-time homemaker. For however long it lasts.