When I graduated from college, I was lost.
It never dawned on me that I’d have to get a job other than a temporary summer gig. This was serious, full-time life. My major had been impractical, considering my level of interest, and at 22 I still had no idea what I wanted.
If I’d stuck with what I was good at, this never would have happened.
I wrote my first piece, so to speak, when I was eight years old. It was a four page handwritten letter, which I mailed to my brother, disparaging his character for failing to tell us he was going to perform at Carnegie Hall. He called my mother to thank her for dictating the hysterical letter and read it to her. I was an instant hit.
I continued to write through high school in advanced English classes. So when my mother suggested I major in English and write, I majored in art.
Four years later I had a B.A. which through dogged determination helped me land a job as a receptionist at a printing company.
But I never gave up on reading, not even to spite my mother. I love books and reading and writing. I have one foot planted in the age of Woodstock, the other here in 2019 reading on-line publications via smartphone on the train to work.
I get lost in people’s stories and lives with a certain amount of envy and craving. Then one day I looked up from my phone and thought:
So here I am. A baby boomer invested in an online course on the many intricacies of Medium, given by none other than one of those horrible millennials. (Thank you!)
The lesson here? Go back to your roots, your first love.
Everyone can do something well.
I now have the chance for more freedom, to escape the fluorescent lights, retire at some point and not dread someday being an old lady on the subway pushing people out of the way with her cane.
Plant the seeds, feel the roots grow. Then feel the bud push its way through the surface and soak in the sun.
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