Central Massachusetts is currently in the midst of its first snow. And once again I am faced with another winter in this section of the country. It is hard to believe that this will be my seventh winter in the state of Massachusetts. It is almost more familiar than New York at this point. But finally a season is changing and I feel that I am as well, and finally in a forward direction.
A couple of Sabbaths ago as Posh slept off the first of two crazy evenings, I tryed coax her to a computer with texts during an enlightening sermon. His sermon was titled "Where Are The Men?" but it was readily apparent that he was truly questioning the dearth of respectable black men in the community. He went through a smattering of discouraging statistics like the overrepresentation in the prison population, the functional illiteracy of the vast majority of black men, and the meager matriculation numbers. For every 100 black women, there are only 30 marriageable black men. There I was nodding along, when it hit me that I was one of the 30. But then I asked was I truly marriage material.
Here I am, only a month away from 26, yet still living paycheck to paycheck. And finally this year, I have given myself a true direction for the first time, but I have failed to consistently follow through. But in the past couple of weeks, I have finally begun to shed that last vestige of childhood that kept me planted. For my life, I have played like an actor and just worked off the script. Sometimes I improvised; sometimes I gave notes. But really I have just followed directions and waited for the next one. But I don't want to be actor as audience. And thank God I'm coming to the conclusion that I can write the script.
So this is fair warning that this will not be a winter of discontent, but joy. I might struggle. I might be discouraged or ready to sloth about and hope that some direction comes forth. But I have to keep moving. I'm in a hole that I don't want to get any deeper. I started a potentially lucrative job that actually mentally stimulates. I still enjoy my original position. And I have some clarity in my professional pursuits.
It's time to keep moving
A couple of Sabbaths ago as Posh slept off the first of two crazy evenings, I tryed coax her to a computer with texts during an enlightening sermon. His sermon was titled "Where Are The Men?" but it was readily apparent that he was truly questioning the dearth of respectable black men in the community. He went through a smattering of discouraging statistics like the overrepresentation in the prison population, the functional illiteracy of the vast majority of black men, and the meager matriculation numbers. For every 100 black women, there are only 30 marriageable black men. There I was nodding along, when it hit me that I was one of the 30. But then I asked was I truly marriage material.
Here I am, only a month away from 26, yet still living paycheck to paycheck. And finally this year, I have given myself a true direction for the first time, but I have failed to consistently follow through. But in the past couple of weeks, I have finally begun to shed that last vestige of childhood that kept me planted. For my life, I have played like an actor and just worked off the script. Sometimes I improvised; sometimes I gave notes. But really I have just followed directions and waited for the next one. But I don't want to be actor as audience. And thank God I'm coming to the conclusion that I can write the script.
So this is fair warning that this will not be a winter of discontent, but joy. I might struggle. I might be discouraged or ready to sloth about and hope that some direction comes forth. But I have to keep moving. I'm in a hole that I don't want to get any deeper. I started a potentially lucrative job that actually mentally stimulates. I still enjoy my original position. And I have some clarity in my professional pursuits.
It's time to keep moving
No comments:
Post a Comment