Grow

When I was in the 8th grade, our class was given a career-planning survey.  Each student answered a questionnaire which sought to define your ideal work environment and, thus, best career choice.  I took my test very seriously.  I considered each question with real intent.  I pondered and weighed my choices, reflected on how well they really represented my identity and what was in my heart.  It took me a long time to complete that little booklet.  When I was done, I read it over and over, making sure I was absolutely happy with my decisions.

Our packages were sent away and returned to us a week later. Each student got an envelope. Sealed inside was the explanation of our ideal career, our professional future; just handed to us, simple as that.  Folded quietly inside that envelope was the potential for me to realize my dreams before I even thought of them myself.  I opened mine excitedly, anxious to see what wonderful, creative, artistically genius possibilities awaited me.

Chimney Sweep.
I got... chimney sweep.

I remember staring at my paper for a long time before I made any kind of reaction. How did my quiz answers lead to this?  I tried to remember the questions; stuff about liking the outdoors, not worried about getting dirty, meeting new people every day, being independent, an ever-changing workplace.  Yes, they do indeed all point to chimney sweep.  But is that really the only thing they point to?  Did chimney sweeping even survive as an industry past the 1900s? Is this what my heart's desires really lead to?

I do realize now that it was some company's arbitrary list of professions attached to a computer rendering program. I meditate on this memory a lot though and think about how limited a school curriculum can be for artistically inclined students.

Growing up as a right-brainer in a left-brained household, school and community, I literally didn't know creative professions were an option until midway through High School. At that point, I probably should have just rebelled and gone crazy, started dressing like Cyndi Lauper, speaking in tongues and doing whatever my little big brain thought up without regard for social acceptance.  Unfortunately, as previously whined, I had a habit of taking myself way too seriously.

Now I get to struggle with my bohemian "coming of age", enlightened starving artist stint at a time when I should be working a 9 to 5 and contributing to a retirement fund.

No negativity here though. Just excitement. And maybe a little bit of resentment for chimney sweeps.