tempted by a ghost

I'm being tested.

Not in the sit-in-a-gymnasium-and-write-for-three-hours tested, but in the put-your-money-where-your-mouth-is tested. Do-what-you-said-you-believed-in tested. Yeah, that kind. The kind that makes you say 'dang, the road I'm meant to travel has to be gravelly and full of pot holes, doesn't it'.

Here I sit, in the heart of self-proclaimed wine country (and yes, there are some teeth to that statement - I have a glass of Black Cloud Wine Pinot Noir in hand as I type this). We turned our backs to the trappings and civility of the Big City in exchange for a chance to float our own boat, so to speak. We headed for the hills, intent on starting a life more true to who we were. Who we are. Who I am.

Opportunity doesn't always have the best timing. And life has a wicked sense of humour.

A few years ago, while on the treadmill of urban living, my 'career' was on a certain trajectory. I worked for a great organization, one that was envied as a Top Employer. And my supervisor was keen on getting my career on the fast track, too. I had a Plan.

Then I went back to school. I met different people; like minded people. I found a mentor. This push/pull me in the direction of my life thing started to happen. My compass realigned and I listened to myself. We ended up here, and better for it.

Two plus years in, things are starting to fall into place. The life I - and we - want to have is germinating. Stuff is growing. Things are sprouting. It feels very right, and very good. It figures that smack-dab in the middle of all this feel good-ness, I get it. The news, that is.

What would have once been my dream job is posted. And I have a connection. An in. Someone I know who wants me in that job. A job that pays very, very well.

The former dream job is in Vancouver.

I sleep on it. In the morning, I realize that what I'm tempted by is only a ghost. It's the ghost of what could have been, a skewed sense of accomplishment measured against the wrong horizon. For me.

Did I pass the test? I'm not sure. Part of me wants to apply, enter the competition and win - if only to decline, but know I could have had what I'd once wanted.

Another part of me, the one that slaves over the ninth edit of a still unpublishable manuscript, says to hell with it. Then that part tells me to get back to work - my real work.

And I listen. So here I am, drinking a beautiful glass of local wine, heeding the call of putting words to a page. Telling a story.

Cheers.


~ Jeannette

the case for sketchy

I’m not much of a planner. People think I am, but I'm not. Now that the cat's out of the bag on the planning stuff, please let me explain.

It’s not that I don’t like to plan. I’m learning that my best thought out plans – even with contingency – don’t see the light of day. Unseen forces and lurking variables throw my plans way off track. And that’s okay.

While in high school I had planned on entering the very competitive world of photography. I had secret dreams of landing a sweet gig with National Geographic. Who wouldn’t? Always having a dose of pragmatism, even then, I diligently planned my learning and researched careers. I thought I had a good grasp on what the first few steps could look like. I had a plan.

My plans changed. Several times. And that’s a good thing, because it brought me here.

So what do we do if we don’t plan? We sketch.

The best plans I’ve found focus on this concept of sketching. And I’ve seen good sketches everywhere: from businesses and organizations, to personal goal setting. Maybe your sketch evolves, holding enough detail to make it seem like a plan. It’s not. A sketch is flexible, scalable and dynamic. Like us.

We change, grow and are impacted by elements beyond our control. Every day. How can we expect ourselves to stick to a plan? If it’s not attainable, we won’t get there. And that just plain sucks.

Stop building your next plan and start a sketch. Leave some areas blank. Don’t box yourself in, even if you think you’re designing a perfect container. That’s only the now talking, not the later. It’s the later that will throw the curve ball at you.

I started being sketchy last year, and I’ve seen a little momentum. Some sketches have almost become pictures. How sweet is that? Maybe not National Geographic sweet, but sweet.

Go be sketchy.


~ Jeannette

the social of the media

If you did something really, really well, would you consider yourself an expert? A guru?

Maybe. Let's explore. But by the title of this post you likely know where I'm going...or suspect.

I'm really good at math, but I'm not an expert - it's more like an aptitude for understanding math than any wealth of knowledge I hold. And I don't hold any such wealth of knowledge; if I did, I might be a mathematician. It wasn't a popular career choice when I was sitting with the guidance counselor in the 10th grade.

My friend is really good at websites. He got me hooked up and hosts mine. He has an understanding of what I need and a sound knowledge of the technical stuff. But I wouldn't call him a guru. Sorry, Jim.

When I think of experts, I think of witnesses in trials and hired guns selling something. Gurus bring a whole other disturbing image to mind; predominately creepy dudes in robes. Dirty robes. And I mean absolutely no disrespect to anyone who is taking the word guru at a literal translation. I'm not.

Aside from writing and blogging I've been spending time on Twitter, building what some would say is 'brand recognition' but what I call relationships. I'm the new kid on the block. I need to get to know people and let them get to know me. That's fine. It's fun and I've met loads of great people.

Something is disturbing about what I think is social media, though. The fact that I'm not even sure I know what it is disturbs me. There's a penchant for people to gravitate to those calling themselves experts or gurus without looking around at the wider circle. It feels a bit like the telemarketer - but more insidious. Because it's a whole new electronic world out there. Kind of like international waters.

I think of social, and I think of relationships, connecting and sharing. Then I think of media and I imagine platforms and ways through which to share news and information - writing, broadcasting, etc. Pen and paper are media, too.

A relationship platform news and information sharing guru? Expert? Doesn't have as nice a ring to it as "social media expert", does it?

There are oodles of people who have a lot of experience with social media and can help with marketing your brand as you sail through these troubling waters. In the short time that I've been on Twitter I have discovered many of these people, including Bradley Cooper, Cameron Herold and Un-marketing. They are informed, active in the areas of which they speak and are willing to share knowledge with you. Without asking for your credit card.

Maybe that's the real guru: the one who will share their knowledge, on any level. Yes, at times for profit (a person's gotta eat). But at other times they share just to share.

Anyone else calling themselves a guru or an expert is just a shill. Don't get taken in. There's no such thing as a passive income (despite my wish for it to be true), because someone somewhere is doing something to make that happen.

I'd like to send a big thank-you out to the people who are making my social media experience a nice one. I hope to have to hire one of you soon, and I will when I need it. Because I know I'm no expert.

Just don't show up wearing dirty robes or the deal's off.


~Jeannette

who are you & how did you get here

What a question. I might be over thinking this one, but I’m pretty sure that’s a story that will take a lot longer than the quick ten minutes I'm allotted.

I joined a group who are keen to ‘invest in self’ in a time of financial restraint – it's kick started by the organization I work for, but includes community partners. I’m ditching my preconceptions as I uncover them. They hide, especially when challenged.

We met first in November, and it was all honeymoon and glow. People were hesitant but excited to be there. A first date is like that: a bit clumsy and usually seen through a heady hue of beautiful colours because it’s all fresh and new. We can’t see any other tracks in the snow but ours.

Now that we’re on the second date the ante has officially been upped. It’s time to look more closely at the veneer, if not yet beneath it – both ours and those around the table with us. Each participant is asked to bring a story to share. Initially, the request seemed innocuous enough – tell us who you are through sharing a little about how you got here.

Yikes.

Which ‘here’ should I choose? There are a few. Meeting my partner was a significant fork in the road of how I got here. Actually, it was getting lost on Lexington Avenue that derailed my train. But there are forks farther back along the route than that.

Dad lost the keys to our car while we camped in a farmer’s field outside of Renfrew, Ontario. Grandpa and grandma stayed with us one winter when I was four, and they spoke little english. My family was trapped for days on a boat stuck in a hydro-electric lift lock – I think in the summer of '79 – when a lightning storm knocked out power (and it wasn't as glamorous as it might sound). I caught a ride to Mexico with a total stranger one winter and drove from Ontario to Mexico in a 3-cylinder Pontiac Firefly.

My point isn’t that some strange things have happened to me – or that I’ve done some strange things. What’s being revealed to me through this simple question is that how I got here is not just by my own actions. It's through a culmination of things: a series of events, time spent with people I love (or not) and unusual situations I put or found myself in.

I’m looking forward to listening to how others interpret this question, and what they choose to share with us. But I’m also interested to see what part of my story I’ll share with these sixteen people that I barely know. It’s storytelling, and it’s what I love.

Oh, and the move to Mexico was to start a life with a fella who isn’t the man I’m now in love with. Plus I didn’t get a job in Toronto that I had wanted desperately. Oh, but that’s a good story...


~ Jeannette

what I forgot

It amazes me sometimes; knowing what I've forgotten. After I remember it, of course.

I listen to CBC Radio often, as many who know me are aware. I’ve blogged about listening to the CBC in the past, I’m sure of it. And I know I’ve blogged about my favourite CBC Radio host, Jian Ghomeshi; the object of my not-so-secret crush.

Last week, Jian broadcast an interview with Rosanne Cash, daughter of Johnny Cash. They spoke about Rosanne’s new album called The List, which features some of the 100 songs her dad said were the quintessential country songs.

I spent the past week listening to Rosanne’s new album (great listening) and lots of Johnny Cash songs. As I wrote (and went through the eleventh edit of a novel on which I have a fragile hold at the moment), I was taken back to weekends of my childhood. I could almost smell the farmers fields in Renfrew, hear the rushing water of Temagami.

During gospel sessions on Sunday mornings and over impromptu pickin’ around the campfire, The Man in Black had an impact on our bluegrass weekends that I’m now realizing. My tacit knowledge that these songs were old Cash songs and remembering dad pickin’ Tennessee Flat-Top Box on his old Gibson...well, these are two different things.

One song took me back to the Sunday gospel stage and those nights around the campfire. We weren’t religious - for me, the strongest pull here is the sense of family. Something makes me think Johnny wouldn’t mind.

Thanks, dad, for giving me such great memories to get me through. I think your pickin’ would hold up next to Johnny’s in a heartbeat.

I can't wait to remember what else I forgot.


~ Jeannette



Daddy Sang Bass

I remember when I was a lad,
times were hard and things were bad.
But there's a silver lining behind every cloud.
Just poor people, that's all we were.
Trying to make a living out of black land dirt.
We'd get together in a family circle singing loud.

Daddy sang bass,
Mama sang tenor.
Me and little brother would join right in there.
Singing seems to help a troubled soul.

One of these days and it won't be long.
I'll rejoin them in a song.
I'm gonna join the family circle at the Throne.
No, the circle won't be broken.
By and by, Lord, by and by.

Daddy sang bass,
Mama sang tenor.
Me and little brother would join right in there.
In the sky, Lord, in the sky.

Now I remember after work,
Mama would call in all of us.
You could hear us singing for a country mile.
Now little brother has done gone on.
But, I'll rejoin him in a song.
We'll be together again up yonder in a little while.

Daddy sang bass,
Mama sang tenor.
Me and little brother would join right in there.
Cause singing seems to help a troubled soul.

One of these days and it won't be long,
I'll rejoin them in a song.
I'm gonna join the family circle at the Throne.
Oh, no the circle won't be broken.
By and by, Lord, by and by.

Daddy sang bass,
Mama sang tenor.
Me and little brother would join right in there.
In the sky, Lord, in the sky.
In the sky, Lord, in the sky.