Lunch break and a stream of conciousness post:
Today was exceptionally perfect.
Five minutes from my office is one of the largest parks in Johnson County and I try to go there for lunch every day. It needs to be storming or 30 below before I will not go to the park. I eat my lunch. Often I will write. Some days I just sit there with my chin in my hand and enjoy the feel of the sun on my neck.
I never want to go back to the office at the end of my hour in the park. One of my minor grumbles about my work is that I absolutely despise putting on a suit, wearing high heels, and sitting all day in an office with windows that don’t open, flourescent lighting, and central air. It makes me itchy and uncomfortable in my own skin. It’s also, unfortunately, a job requirement. I’ve found my time in the park is essential to keeping me sane.
You know, I’ve spent a lot of time over the past year or so thinking about what makes me happy with work and what doesn’t. It wasn’t until I was writing this post that it occurred to me that this job is the first one I’ve ever had in which being outside is not a job requirement. I don’t know how much it matters. Maybe not at all. But I’ve never considered it even once.
That’s one thing I love about writing in general, journaling in particular: the unexpected thought or turn of events. Sometimes the truest voice is the quietest voice. I can’t hear it because of all the other stuff buzzing around my head. It’s not until I start to write that I can begin to make sense of things, impose some sense of priority and perspective on the whole mess. Only then can I turn down the buzzing and finally hear that voice.