Out Like A Sprout.

When I was growing up, I had this system.  If I looked outside and it was raining, it was a little sign from God that everything was going to be okay. I took great comfort in it; no matter what was going on, no matter the complexities of circumstance plaguing me, I’d let the rain wash it away. Ah, I’d say, the rain’s here.  Everything is righting itself again.

I think I’d watched too many documentaries on parched African cultures, or had studied too many Native rain dances.  I grew up in Seattle, where the constant drizzle is as signature as the latte addiction. My dependence on the rain, then? Possibly self-serving.  Still, coming out of work today, the droplets on my skin reminded me of that comfort I used to find.

This has been a workweek that’s lasted a lifetime.  Really, I love my job—but the environment is, I fear, slowly growing toxic.  I hate my manager, and quoting my mother, yes, hate is a strong word.  I’m quickly growing disenchanted with the tedium of the day-to-day, and sure as this happens with any job—really, wasn’t it so much better when we were still in school?—I’m drowning in the thought that this is it, the final train, my destination this lonely depot.

I should say not. 

The rain spoke to me today.  The common “it’s going to be okay” message remained, but with teeth: it’s going to be okay, and better; different things are coming.

I spent the ride home drowning out reality listening to really loud Postal Service.  I think everyone has moments when the constant hum of the commuters is too much, when the buzz of the doors opening, doors closing routine seems altogether stifling.  The only escape is within, and thank all goodness for the iPod. 

It can, at times, be easier to just move forward than acknowledge the stops and starts along the way. Still, though, there’s something about that routine that’s comforting.  It’s dependable, it’s calculated, it’s certain.  I think that’s what scares me the most about this thing called adulthood.  I’m worried I’ll lose myself in the wash of sights and sounds, colors and movement and, adrift, grasp sightlessly for the parameters I’ve so long clung to.

I think it’s going to go like this.  I’ll stick around courting the rain at this job until 2009.  Then, come January, I’ll look elsewhere and I’m out like a sprout.  A charming, if unconventional, simile:  I’ll be out like a sprout and doing new things, growing in new places, meeting new people, and sinking my roots into different soil.  Which makes the next eight months so much more bearable, somehow.