Life, or something like it

I work a lot.

Well, that’s an understatement.

I work a lot for pay that is decent, but not commensurate with, well, anything. But I get a lot of satisfaction out of making things work, with low budgets, and tortuous procedures and short lead times. In short, I love my work.

Is it my life? Yes, it is, and it has always been so, by choice in large measure. I find joy at the end of the day, when I am tired and cranky, and the deadlines looming next week are impossible mountains to climb, but still I know that I’ve created, and organized and managed things in the way that I see as good, and professional, and effective. My frustration with work is ever and always the impossibility to produce something that reaches my standards within the time allotted, or with the resources allotted. And yet, I rest easy knowing that I’ve done, not my best, but well by objective, and outside standards. That defines me, as much an anything ever can.

But is it my whole life? Not by a longshot.

My whole life has reading in it. Voracious reading of anything fantasy, sci-fi, historical or historical romance that i can lay my greedy hands on. With reading I travel, to the Hidden City, to Middle Earth, to Elantris, with reading I am a female warrior, the mother of a goddess. a budding magician, a thief, an insect-kinden, and I take flights of imagination as bold as the 1960′s space adventures. Houston, Houston, do you read? (Btw, wonderful story by James Tiptree junior, who, btw, was a woman).

And I have salsa. The music, the dance, the people, the projects. The project to dance better, or to direct a story told through Latin dancing, the project to teach other less-than-talented folk such as my self. 1,2, 3, 5, 6, 7.

And I have cooking. Improvising recipes on weekends, discovering wild rice, and honey mustard and pomegranate.

And I have friends.

And family that I love to spend time with.

So how is that not a full, fulfilled life?

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