It’s winter in my Harvest Moon (*CRINGE*forgirls*CRINGE*) game, which means it’s mining season. That’s right – there are jewels, gold, and mysterious edible, black, healing plants to collect. No crops can grow, and I already hired enough elves to take care of the animals. Essentially, the mines give you places to dig around. You also get to smash rocks with a big hammer. There are at least 100 levels one could travel down to find more rare, valuable treasures.
I won’t steer off in a diatribe about the symbolism behind this, that a person has to dig themselves a deep grave, losing oneself in the process, to get potential riches, but just note that it’s a background thought as I write this one, folks.
There are rumors around that I’m in the running for a promotion (in title). This title does not carry any greater salary opportunities, but holds increased responsibilities and a few extra, worthwhile benefits. Yet, I’m the type of person that likes to only count hatched, flapping, feathery chicks. A hen poking around in the grass without any sign of laying any egg is not enough to get me excited, or running for a frying pan (my apologies, herbivore friends). I did not let a foundation of false hope to build, despite the reassuring smiles and knowing winks traveling around, because the position is publicly listed and fair game to outside candidates. In fact, interviews are taking place. I’ve already introduced myself to a few unknowing “rivals”.
Hope, no matter how diluted, still exists, bubbles, and waits. I’m perfectly content digging holes, looking for more stairwells to the next level, but imagine my shock when I was playing my video game and found no other stairwells in that stage. Strange – that never happened before. There were no other options but to leave, to ascend and re-enter. The programming sucks? Try again from the last save point. One of my mentors stopped by to visit today. He congratulated me on my accomplishments.
This sounds like polite, encouraging, and even supportive conversation, but his tone started to align itself with an idea that I’m trapped with no means of advancement, like my Harvest Moon character. He said a little too dismissively, too confidently, that I would prefer to spend my time doing something else, utilizing my degree to its fullest ability. He compared where I was professionally to being wrapped in a warm blanket. Loudly (see: in front of those I supervise, and terrifyingly, within earshot of my superiors).
It was out of my comfort zone, but I interrupted him for a change.
I love my work and find inherent meaning in the most menial of tasks, in the largest of projects entrusted to me. Not to sound like I’m on an interview, but I thoroughly thrive on uncovering any fissures, collaborating, thinking up ways to improve services to our clients. I strive for an efficient, ethical, and genuine staff that wholeheartedly believes in our grounding philosophy. I use my degrees in Psychology to build rapport, soothe fears and concerns, and generally go above the calling of my job description to meet a moral standard, not merely earn a paycheck. This is not the post of a bitter employee, upset that she’s been deceived or led on in any way. This is the rant of a disappointed person who lost respect for someone who tried to insinuate that I was not where I should be at this stage in life.
I believe my supervisors have the utmost faith in my abilities, and being the relative newbie, dues are owed. Time must pass. Blankets are nice, especially in this economic frost. I love warm blankets, but I also love the cold, the sense you get when dashing across a chilled room in the morning, the rush in your lungs as you make a beeline to use the bathroom as quickly as possible – you don’t have a choice, you just gotta go. However, I don’t view myself as wrapped up in blankets. I am running about in the cold while wearing a sensible amount of layered clothes for the season.
Stability does not negate the prospect of venturing out in the future, or pursuing creative dreams on the side. Paying monthly bills, helping out a few struggling relatives and friends, and a few leftover dollars to save toward better housing, eventual marriage, and the like never shamed anyone. It certainly doesn’t shame me. I put myself through college. I graduated early. I put myself through graduate school. I graduated early. I am self-sufficient financially and blessed with overwhelming love and respect from those around me. Looking forward to working every day is a good sign that I’m doing something right, not wrong. It rocked, no, disturbed me more deeply than I first believe when this person suggested I was limiting myself, and masked their disapproval of my career choices with the claim of looking out for my best interests – at my place of employment, no less.
Plus, I am not sitting stagnant and dissatisfied. I find meaning in my work. I’m here to do the greatest amount of good for the greatest amount of people possible, and it is my interest, curiosity, and initiative in this aim serving me well, not misplaced motivations to climb a corporate ladder. I do not mean this in a utilitarian sense as Kant did, though many policies are established with this idea in mind. Mother Teresa’s words resound strong and true: “It is not the magnitude of our actions, but the amount of love that is put into them that matters.” The details are just as important as the overall picture.
I stated my case. I said that I better myself in multiple ways every day without yearning for something more. Satisfaction is not settling. Happiness can build a resume as easily as misery. I will never refuse a freely given scarf when there are miles to travel outside on a snowy day, especially when it was hand-knit, just for me.
