Waiting For That Rocket

It’s 1 o’clock in the morning and I’m laying in bed allowing my train of thought to take me wherever it wants to go. This is what I wonder: what the heck does “waiting for that rocket” even mean?

Why am I waiting? Why am I not searching out “my rocket?” I know part of the answer lies in this: I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up, therefore I have no idea what form or shape my rocket will take. How can you seize opportunity when you aren’t sure where that opportunity is going to come from?

There are a million things I’d love to do/try/learn: marketing, design, business, development, retail, law, higher education. I love to talk about, and develop, ideas. I like to help other people succeed. I like to fix problems. I like to drink coffee. I enjoy driving (as long as it doesn’t involve a city larger than Portland – I get freaked out by overly aggressive drivers). I love being outside. I like working with people, but I don’t enjoy feeling like I’ve sold my soul. I love (love love LOVE) mountains, the ocean and seasons – so areas I could potentially relocate to are limited.

I blame my high standards on my mom and dad (I know, what a copout, right?! But bear with me). When I was but a wee tot, my dad worked for a Fortune 500 company and my mom was a CPA. In the ensuing 20 years, though, my dad has followed his dream of being a professional photographer and my mom, although still doing some bookkeeping as a day job, has moved on to a personal ministry. They’ve not been afraid to roll with the punches that come along with following their dreams. They’ve set the bar high for me.

The best thing about my parents, is that they love me unconditionally. Do I exasperate them? Probably daily. Do they wish that I could contribute more financially to the household? I have no doubt. But more importantly, they want me to be happy. And they know the average, run of the mill desk jockey job would never make me happy.

So until that happy day when I find the job that allows me to do everything I want to do, I’m just sitting here waiting for inspiration to strike. I guess I am still “waiting for that rocket to come,” but maybe it’s not as negative as I thought. I’m not idly sitting by, waiting for someone to offer me the “magic beans.” I liken it more to someone meditating, searching for enlightenment and a purpose in life. For now – it’s a holding pattern. I’m just lucky enough to have it be a pattern that I enjoy.

Matt Cheuvront wrote a post last month that really made me think. “Don’t Walk…Run Out of Your Comfort Zone” has words that I need to remember. As referenced earlier, I am a homebody. If I never had to leave my comfortable little corner of the world again, I’d be happy. For the first 24 years of my life I was surrounded by the same people, the same situations. I was learning, I was growing, but it rare was I pushed outside of that comfort zone.

Over the past year and a half, I have increasingly pushed myself out of my comfort zone. As someone who tends to be shy, my first foray out of my virtual bubble was joining Twitter. Even then though, I found myself engaging either the faceless, famous or folks who were already friends. Things started to change with my first “tweetup” (a party at a local establishment where folks from Twitter get together).

That first tweetup was traumatizing for me. Not because people were mean (they weren’t, far from it, actually), but because by just being there I had left my comfort zone in a big way. Gradually, though, I started to ease more into the Maine Twitter community. Now when I attend tweetups I rarely get that frozen “Oh my God people I’m going to die,” feeling.

Twitter has gotten me used to talking to complete strangers. Twitter is what I would call the ultimate social crutch. You can get to know folks long before you summon up the courage to talk to them “IRL” (“In Real Life” for those of you not used to online speak). This makes the transition from online friends to real life friends much easier. Added bonus, much less harmful to your health than cigarettes, alcohol and drugs (the other traditional “social crutches”).

What is it about us, about our generation (or us as a society, take your pick) that necessitates the need for permission to do things?

At 26 years old, I should feel empowered enough, by this point, to do whatever the heck I want to. But I still keep waiting for permission, for someone to say, “It’s okay for you to follow your whims, your passion, your dreams.”

I leave you with these words from Martin Sexton’s “Failure”:

“Thank god for failure
And the things I couldn’t do
So much of my life
It’s all I ever knew
Thank you for failure…
For making the dreams that chose me
Come true”

In talking with a good friend today, I was able to articulate a breakthrough: 2009 wasn’t such a bad year.

There. I said it.

It wasn’t so bad.

In fact, I’d go so far as to say that it was one of my best years of my young life.

For every bad thing that happened – and there were several rough patches – I had at least one good thing happen to balance that out.

For every changing, declining, evaporating interpersonal relationship I’ve had another sprout up into it’s place.

For every job I hated, I had another develop that I love(d).

For every instance of introverted, socially awkward “OMG save me from the scary human interaction” I experienced I had a payoff that made almost every interaction worth it (at the very least as a learning experience :)

For every cup of crap coffee I had, I guarantee I had five cups of good coffee to back it up.

Last year was a landmark year. A year of changes beyond belief. A year of unbelievable changes. And a year of semi-actualized potential. 2009 was an incredible year. Here’s hoping that 2010 surpasses even that.