Wild Ride

"Roller coasting structure“ (US310966A) by LaMarcus A. Thompson, 1885

Sometimes I tiptoe softly into the new year, stepping gently around obstacles and deftly avoiding landslides. I slither in stealth mode; stay under the radar.

This year was not that year.

This year I crashed through at full speed, needles akimbo and yarn tails streaming out behind me.

With the subtlety of a ghost pepper.

With the delicacy of a jackhammer.

It went like this:

I was grinding away at a menial part-time job. I dutifully crawled around under the bottom shelf at the Big Orange Store. I shoved five-gallon buckets of paint from the dusty deepest darkest, out toward the man who was snarling at me in a language I don’t speak. I silently prayed for the rats not to come out while I was under there.

Over and over, every single day, I searched and applied for a better way to butter my bread. I talked to everybody I could think of. I studied the ways of the resume-busting algorithms. I interviewed. And interviewed. Wondered if I were too dumb or too smart. Too skilled or not skilled enough. Worried that I stuttered or had something in my teeth.

Meanwhile at the Big Orange Store, I mixed paint in colors that are not colors, for the people who won’t imagine more. I secretly gave those “colors” names in the sales system: “Enui Gray”. “Inevitable Beige”. “Landlord White”. A tiny protest to remind myself I still could see the rainbow as long as I remembered to look. On and on, for 19 months, not making ends meet. I begged forgiveness from creditors. I ate peanut butter and jelly. I sold my wedding ring.

You were there for this part: Late in 2025 I finally remembered to knit. I clocked a delayed project that would not be silent in my psyche any longer, and I finally picked up the yarn. You showed up, like you always do, Gentle Knitters. You welcomed me back and you cheered me on, still interested in my Real Work, no matter how long I’d gone dark. I thank Heaven for you, Every Single One.

And that’s when the dam finally broke. With no warning at all, I started to be called for more interviews. And not one or two, but ten. Twenty. More. My mind threatened to explode as I put on the navy blazer and clawed closer to sustainable employment. I remembered my lipstick and smiled. I said things like “Information Conduit” and “Team Synergy”. I worried my long poverty would make me seem desperate, but remembered there were other interviews coming if I happened to choke on one. By the end of December my mindset shifted from “Holding the line against Despair” to “Guarded Optomism”.

I crossed my fingers, even though that made it hard to knit.

Nobody panic: this is intentional. Stay tuned to find out WTF.

And that’s when the dam finally broke. Salvation in the form of a job offer. Not from a “just for now” kind of place, but from the State of Oregon. The very situation I had been praying for: Being of use to my fellow Oregonians with a team of gentle, loving and smart souls behind me.

Somebody (who isn’t a creditor) pinch me.

I get to keep my house.

I get to drive my car.

I get to keep the lights on.

I folded paper cranes and hooked one to each locker in the break room at the big orange store. A tiny gesture of thanks to the people who were kind to me in an us-against-them kind of job. I bid them farewell and wished them hope for their own futures. I tried not to fret over their stuckness in that place of empty promises and physical pain.

So, that’s where I’ve been since my last post - learning and learning and learning a very hard and engaging and rewarding new job. Not unlike what I’ve always done for you, Gentle Readers.

Just don’t tell them they’re only my secondary profession.

Job One is still playing with string.

Next time: I’ve been Thistling. A Lot.