I’ve been writing Figuring Out Fulfillment for a few weeks over a year now. I was talking with a friend about what I’ve taken away from the process, and she commented, “Well, you’ve basically been your own therapist for a year.” She’s right. Lately, when I’m irritated at work over something I’ll soon forget, wanting to say something, to act out in a way I know I shouldn’t, I sometimes catch myself. “You wrote about this type of scenario,” I tell myself. “Don’t do it, you know better, and you’d be defying your own advice.” So I refrain, not wanting to be a hypocrite, and demonstrating to myself that I have the self-control to transcend the day-to-day frustrations that turn the clock into a cruel tool for watching minutes slowly register. I can focus my energy instead on finding and creating a way of being where I am wholly immersed, like a coffee bean sinking into melted chocolate, in a state in which I am perpetually amazed to find that the day has ended, again. Writing Figuring Out Fulfillment for this past year brought that place closer. I can see it now, make out its form, and I know which way to go next.
Writing has helped me sort out my uncertainties and helped me sort through the experiences I’d rather not have been mine and see their value. It’s helped me tell my story in one place, even if not consecutively.
Part of the story was meeting Bill, an English teacher in Japan, turned attorney, turned career coach, whom I have invited to join me to tell his story as part of Figuring Out Fulfillment. Bill will introduce himself on Friday.