Found this in my files today. Never before shared. The paper is still stained with my tears. (Written circa 2002.)
I lost a job today.
Never been one for writing poetry.
How does one craft that stuff, anyway?
Perhaps it’s borne of pain?
The sting of unrealized dreams.
I awoke amidst a profound loss.
It was there yesterday,
But so much bigger today.
The loss of a job.
My therapist tells me to feel the blow.
But, how do I do that without collapsing?
Or, is collapsing the thing to do?
For a month or two my future was bright.
My career hitting heights never before dreamt of.
But people, her “negotiators” muddied the waters.
They said I asked for too much.
I wonder what they stood to gain through my departure?
Now I struggle to let it go,
To return to the joy I felt before I knew such a future could exist.
My heart heavy, fear rages.
I pray I can keep this from ever happening again.
It’s just the nature of the beast, they tell me. You’re living an artist’s life.
I don’t feel like an artist right now, anything but.
I wait for the phone to ring, the emails to arrive, the apologies to come.
Silence.
Does the woman at the top even know I’ve been hurt?
Or does she feel that she is the real victim here?
Her life so full she forgets one small deal.
Or is it too painful, this path I asked her to walk?
Coaxing her to delve down to the depths of her life.
Bearing her soul, her wounds, her hurts for all to see.
The girl who is so blessed, so famous, so in control.
It’s not her way, she tells me, to delve this deep.
It’s her motto to steer clear of all painful things.
She’ll open the box, she sees the value, knows she must.
One day, when she has the time.
She cries as she thanks me for taking her there.
It’s locked, that box.
We both know she is likely to swallow the key.
But even if she doesn’t, what if time eludes her?
As it’s done for her mother.
And mine.
She did go there, for a time,
At my prompting and instruction.
I held her hand, as she stood tall and walked through the hurt.
She did me proud.
Exposed more than I could have hoped.
I am proud of me, too.
For telling her what wasn’t easy to hear.
For not being yet another “yes man” in her world.
For daring to lose her trust by speaking straight.
For fighting for the value of all she’s endured.
Yes, I am proud of me.
For remaining steadfast in the face of manipulation.
For holding firm when I ached to cave.
For doing my research when I was sure to be naïve.
For asking for more than was offered.
For a job bigger than both of us.
Even though I knew I could lose it all.
I grieve for the loss of this deal.
The loss of the potential bounty that was nearly real.
The camaraderie.
The late-night laughter.
The tears we’d share in the creation of such profound work.
The abundance of all things creative and dear.
The critics would have seen its value, surely.
The readers would have been changed.
Her gifts flung far and wide.
My love underneath it all.
Midwifing it forth.
Easing this baby into a waiting world.
My sense of purpose and gratitude would carry me.
My need to contribute to this important cause fulfilled.
But would I be so effective if the pay was a pittance?
Would she—and her team—still respect and love me if we failed to hit the charts?
Would it be my fault if, in undervaluing myself, I was too stressed to do my best?
What more could I now give,
From this place of empty?
FUCK!
What if it’s worth the risk?
Of possibly attaining all I’ve ever worked for?
The new furniture purchased in my head.
The house freshly painted, my son’s college tuition at least partially secured.
Finally vanquishing financial struggle for all that glitters.
But there’s no gold here.
Not for me.
I can only hope I’m being protected.
That I’ve lost for some greater win close at hand.
I can’t know why, but I can know faith.
Faith in the unsure.
Faith in the seemingly unfair.
Faith that another day brings greater jobs yet unseen.
Faith that the next one is so much easier than this.
LS
