I despise the term "self-help."
I think there are plenty of authors out there making ridiculous fortunes by creating long, wordy, repetitive pages stocked with hollow motivational drivel in the name of "self-help." I don't trust people who expect personal compensation for touting their lifestyles along bookshelves under the guise of trying to make people live better lives. I think often self-help needs to come from yourself, not from a book, a magazine article, or whatever Oprah has proclaimed as canonized "truth."
What I do appreciate are professional-help books. Academic-help books. Books that provide insight, experience, and advice in a particular field or research or expertise. Our shelves are lined with such books. B. is prepping for the GRE so those three letters seem to take up a majority of our self space lately. But next to her vast tomes of test prep there sits a small book of short anecdotes and brief chapters of advice compiled by a local business owner. B. got it for me before I graduated, and it seems appropriate for my current position in life: "Burn Your Portfolio: Stuff They Don't Teach You in Design School But Should."
It's self-deprecating and a pleasant read, and while some of the advice is geared more towards the management side of running a design firm, I find some occasional nuggets of solid professional advice. One of the more recent gems was this: "Under-promise, Over-deliver." Keep your client's expectations low and then dazzle them by surpassing them.
This is a challenge for me. I recently had my brother over while I spoke to a freelance client. I am a phone-pacer, but my nerves had me running laps around our small living room. He had to laugh as I put on a brave face and did my best to sell my services. I wanted this job and I wanted extra money to pad our recent jump in expenses, but I knew the next few days would be jam-packed if I committed too much. I got the job, did the work and slept very little for a week and a half, but the client was pleased with the result, the paycheck gave us a financial cushion, and I was still able to carve out some time for an anniversary date (love you, hon) between jobs.
Yes, jobs. This freelance gig was welcome, but difficult to fit into my schedule. I've found I don't have much room to under- or over-promise my freelance work. After six weeks of job-hunting, countless applications, almost 40 interviews, several take-home design tests, and haggling over insurance benefits, I was able to begin full-time employment before I even graduated. In addition to my full-time job, another job that offered a full-time position but was unable to offer benefits agreed to let me work part-time from home. So I come home from my full-time job to work nights at my part time job, and on weekends and whenever I can get a spare moment I continue to assist on what was a class project but has blossomed into a short film that our small team hopes to enter into the Student Emmys. Full-time job, part-time job, film project. Thus is my schedule. Thus is my life.
Let me say here that I am not complaining about being busy. Early in our marriage, B. was offered additional part-time work and she found a way to fit the impossible hours in with her insurmountable homework load. I know many people are struggling to find even one job and here I am blessed with over-employment and a surplus of hours to work. But my busyness is forcing me to under-promise in other facets of my life that I've never had to bow out of before.
When I was in school I could just skip an assignment or b.s. a paper and get by. I knew the game of school and how to pass without a hitch. This freed me up to enjoy family time, work on personal projects, set aside some free time for my sanity, cook, and exercise. Now it takes some serious scheduling to make sure I can take B. out on a date or I can go for a walk. I had hopes of rebuilding connections and friendships left sacrificed on the altar of college schedules, but if anything I'm less free now than I was then. I hope once the post-graduation dust has settled I can resurrect some projects I had to put on hold during school and I'd love to get back into the habit of filling at least one sketchbook page a day. I hope to begin writing again and reading for pleasure again. I hope to reconnect with friends and have some semblance of a social life again.
But for now I'm going to under-promise that I will write here when I can. This is my grindstone. This is my grunt work. The hard work I do now will open doors for me in other industries and further my future career. I know enough about this industry to know that everyone has to go through this post-grad busyness. And I'm lucky to have someone who's been there, and knows that when I under-promise her something, I only do it so I can over-deliver.
S
Sunday, May 17, 2015
Tuesday, January 6, 2015
Hearth and Home
I've always had a home. Moving around a lot growing up it became easy to make a house a home. Somewhere to call my own, a comforting refuge from the world.
I've heard the term "hearth and home" before, but never gave it much thought until recently. What differentiates hearth from home? Traditionally a hearth is the marble or brick slab of a fireplace that extends from the wall into the room. Over time the term evolved into a symbol for family life, a spirit of welcome and shelter.
Our home has been many things. A place to indoctrinate my brother in the glories of Liam Neeson cinema. A studio for my early attempts at professional artwork and design. A gallery of sorts capturing our marriage in photographs strewn across the wall. It serves as a base of operations, the logistical hub of our busy lives as we try to scrape out some time together each day. It's a test kitchen (mainly for B.) to discover new and exciting recipes that quickly become staples of our menu.
Ironically, our home has a fireplace. A dormant fireplace. We're just renting and we have central heat installed, so despite the romanticism of a warm crackling fire, we've left our hearth alone. It's just not worth the hassle. We have been blessed to enjoy a wonderful home. But it doesn't always have hearth. We scramble around most of the day and get home late enough for a quick dinner, an hour or so of Netflix, shower, do B.'s hair and bed. We're private homebodies, a busy married couple usually with only enough time for each other on a good day.
But over this winter break a small ember burst into life in our dusty hearth. A very dear friend came to visit while he was back in town seeing family for the holiday. He walked up as I was halfway though shoveling snow from our driveway. There was no handshake or hug, just a smile and a nod as I ditched the shovel and we headed inside. We plopped down on the couch and it was as if we picked up right where we left off. Although I often wax verbose in writing, I don't talk much. He is one of the few people that can get me going in a conversation for hours. We didn't leave the couch for over six hours. After a much needed nap, B. joined us at our newly rediscovered hearth. She took up the conversation with no delay or hesitation. This friend of ours is a rare thing because he is just that: our friend. Most of the people B. and I know are colleagues from very different fields so when they come over one of us is always a little out of the loop. But this guy knows and likes us both.
He and I can talk politics, the ironically slow and decaying quality of Walking Dead, and the challenges of surviving as a 20-something in a fast-paced world full of tragedy and idiocy while he and B. can commiserate on having to deal with the average layman's stupidity and the nightmare of grad school as well as compare notes on the best books on international affairs.
In many ways his visit was one of the highlights of my holiday. It provided a glimpse into a future beyond undergraduate studies, a world of adulthood unburdened by professors and homework and the collegiate bureaucracy. A future where we will have weekends again, and friends and some semblance of a social life. But most of all he rekindled a sense of welcome and belonging to our tidy, tiny apartment.
He gave our home its hearth.
Happy New Year everyone,
S
I've heard the term "hearth and home" before, but never gave it much thought until recently. What differentiates hearth from home? Traditionally a hearth is the marble or brick slab of a fireplace that extends from the wall into the room. Over time the term evolved into a symbol for family life, a spirit of welcome and shelter.
Our home has been many things. A place to indoctrinate my brother in the glories of Liam Neeson cinema. A studio for my early attempts at professional artwork and design. A gallery of sorts capturing our marriage in photographs strewn across the wall. It serves as a base of operations, the logistical hub of our busy lives as we try to scrape out some time together each day. It's a test kitchen (mainly for B.) to discover new and exciting recipes that quickly become staples of our menu.
Ironically, our home has a fireplace. A dormant fireplace. We're just renting and we have central heat installed, so despite the romanticism of a warm crackling fire, we've left our hearth alone. It's just not worth the hassle. We have been blessed to enjoy a wonderful home. But it doesn't always have hearth. We scramble around most of the day and get home late enough for a quick dinner, an hour or so of Netflix, shower, do B.'s hair and bed. We're private homebodies, a busy married couple usually with only enough time for each other on a good day.
But over this winter break a small ember burst into life in our dusty hearth. A very dear friend came to visit while he was back in town seeing family for the holiday. He walked up as I was halfway though shoveling snow from our driveway. There was no handshake or hug, just a smile and a nod as I ditched the shovel and we headed inside. We plopped down on the couch and it was as if we picked up right where we left off. Although I often wax verbose in writing, I don't talk much. He is one of the few people that can get me going in a conversation for hours. We didn't leave the couch for over six hours. After a much needed nap, B. joined us at our newly rediscovered hearth. She took up the conversation with no delay or hesitation. This friend of ours is a rare thing because he is just that: our friend. Most of the people B. and I know are colleagues from very different fields so when they come over one of us is always a little out of the loop. But this guy knows and likes us both.
He and I can talk politics, the ironically slow and decaying quality of Walking Dead, and the challenges of surviving as a 20-something in a fast-paced world full of tragedy and idiocy while he and B. can commiserate on having to deal with the average layman's stupidity and the nightmare of grad school as well as compare notes on the best books on international affairs.
In many ways his visit was one of the highlights of my holiday. It provided a glimpse into a future beyond undergraduate studies, a world of adulthood unburdened by professors and homework and the collegiate bureaucracy. A future where we will have weekends again, and friends and some semblance of a social life. But most of all he rekindled a sense of welcome and belonging to our tidy, tiny apartment.
He gave our home its hearth.
Happy New Year everyone,
S
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