What’s Next?

At the time of writing this, I’ll be starting a new job tomorrow. My first full-time one since last November. Since this won’t be published until Wednesday, for my dear readers, for you, it’s yesterday.

The forecast tomorrow is heavy rain. Right now, at 18:00, we’re even under a tornado warning.

If that isn’t poetic irony, I don’t know what is.

Of course, my husband, being the loving support he is, commented, “Yes, Hashem is also upset you’re starting a new job tomorrow, so He decided to make it rain.”

Thanks, dear.

I’ve sat down and tried writing this blog post so many times since I was offered the job back in…well the beginning of this month [May]. It seems like so much has happened since then; it feels like somehow, by some miracle, my final month as a “free woman” lasted longer than I anticipated.

I say “free woman” because to me going back to a regular 9-5 desk job is an enslavement of my soul which longs to create, to dream. There’s a reason so many films are made about those regular Joe & Jane Schmoes finding life outside the borders of their cubicles.

Did you know the sages teach that one of the many forms of slavery the Hebrews were subject to in Egypt was not being allowed to reach their fullest potentials by not utilising their unique talents or skills within their work?

When I heard that this last Pesach, it haunted me. It still does.

How do I describe the confliction that is knowing I need to help my husband prepare for our future, but also knowing that going back to work might cause my writing to suffer?

To the outside, these past few months of “unemployment” I’ve gotten to just indulge in whatever whims I’ve had, when really I’ve been working my butt off with queries, drafting, and blogging on top of my personal life that was no cake walk. (But there were a lot of birthdays, so at least there was cake?)

Now let me reassure you that this blog will not come to an end. I am determined to remain ever vigilant and diligent in my attained consistency. Rather, I’m emoting my oscillation, my struggle, with knowing I must go back to work.

I must.

But as my husband keeps faithfully reminding me—as I begged him to do whenever I wept reading the email containing the job offer—this is not the end.

A pause? Perhaps. A new chapter? A side quest? Maybe. A new beginning, or a means to an end? Probably all the above.

But most of all: it is.

Whatever comes next, the amount of trust I’m placing in both Hashem and my husband that this is merely a temporary situation unto a more glorious future, whatever that future is and looks like—my hope is still fragile.

I guess we’ll just have to stick around to see what comes next?