Chapter Two - A Trip Down Memory Lane, Marines

2.

                Jack had always been interested in Native American cultures, particularly the Oglala Lakota of the old West.  As a child, he had heard family stories about a great, great grandmother who was Oglala. As he grew, he read stories of the old West. Stories about the battle of Wounded Knee, and Little Big Horn.  He knew the names Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull, George Custer and George Crook.  The older he got, the more his interest in Indian lore faded. When he joined the US Marines at age 20, he was proud of his Indian blood, but not more so than his English, Irish, Scottish, Welsh, Dutch, German or Norwegian blood.  He considered himself a true American Mutt.

                Marine Corps boot camp was tough.  But as he strengthened his body, he realized that it was more of a mental game than physical.  Sure, the physical regime was brutal. It was intended to build the strong bodies required to fill combat roles.  But the mental games that the DI’s played were just as tough, weeding out anyone who did not have the mental toughness to work through the pain or the tedious repetition. Of the seventy that started training that January of 1992, only around 60 would graduate in April, proud to claim the title of United States Marine. 

 

Jack did well in boot camp. Losing about ninety pounds, and gaining a sense of self respect that he had lost somehow after high school. It was also the beginning of his search for some spiritual truth as well. After high school, he fell away from his Methodist upbringing, and identified as an atheist. But during boot camp he met a guy named Larry Perrault, a deeply religious man from Louisiana.  They became friends, and would often debate religion during free time. Jack wanted to believe in God, but had been disillusioned with the organized religions that preached “It’s our way or hell”. Larry would tell him the most important words he could hear.

As they sat cleaning gear with only a few days of boot camp remaining, discussing again the existence of God, Larry told Jack that it was OK to not believe right now. He also made Jack promise to keep an open mind to whatever came in the future.

“Don’t close God out completely.” He told Jack that day, “He wants to be in your life.  Just promise me that you’ll keep looking for the truth.”

Jack promised, though he didn’t expect much to change.

  Jack would be going to artillery school to train to become a Fire Direction Controlman. His job would be to sit behind the big cannons and get information from the Forward Observers about where the enemy was.  That information would be plugged into electronic and physical computers and changed into a set off numbers to be sent to the gun line so they could deliver the rounds where the FO’s wanted them.  It was, in Marine lingo, a high speed, high stress job, as an error in computation could lead to 155 mm rounds dropping on friendly troops.

                But before he went to artillery school, he – and every other Marine fresh out of boot camp – would have five weeks of infantry school training.  In the Marine Corps, every Marine is a basic infantryman first.  The Corps is too small to have specialties like the army, where a cook or an administrative clerk could go their entire career without touching a weapon. Marines are all infantrymen who happen to specialize in other things.

                So after a ten day leave to visit friends and family back home, Jack shipped out to 29 Palms, California, to complete his infantry schooling.  He had a good time at infantry school.  He had earned the right to be a Marine, and the Sergeants rarely yelled at them or put them in the dirt to do push-ups for punishment.  It was just solid schooling in infantry tactics and techniques.  He remembered Larry’s words, but they were way in the back of his mind as he crammed as much infantry knowledge into his head as he could.  He also had a little more freedom to write in infantry school. He didn’t dare keep much of a journal in boot camp. But he started keeping them again at infantry school so he could remember all of the things he was learning, and record his experiences in case anyone would be interested in reading about them one day in the future.

                One night in the second week of training, his company did a night fire exercise, with heavy .50 caliber machine guns, lighter SAW 240 machine guns, a couple of Mark 19’s that fired grenades like a machine gun, and dozens of M-16A-2’s, the rifle of issue in those days.  All of the weapons were loaded with tracer rounds, and the firing range was lit up with the thousands of burning rounds heading downrange at the burned out husks of old vehicles that served as targets. It was a very graphic demonstration of just how much firepower could be brought to bear upon the enemy. A confidence builder for grunts to see that well-coordinated fire was deadly to the enemy.  After the show, Jack and his platoon filed out of the bleachers. A sergeant stood at the head of the line pulling Marines out and directing them to a tent. Jack was one of those tapped to go. He thought it was another “voluntary” work detail.

                When the sergeant came in, he told the Marines that this was a mandatory religion class. He then spoke about his extremely fundamentalist views on God, and how God only favored certain people. Certain races. Jack looked around and noticed that every other Marine was Caucasian like him. The sergeant told them that they should not call “other” Marines brother, as that was an affront to God.  After ten minutes of this, he asked if anyone had questions. One private up front asked if he could leave, as this was not what he believed at all.  The sergeant asked him to explain, and the private said that the God he believed in was the God of everyone. Not just whites. The sergeant nodded his head for a moment, then struck the private with an openhanded slap that made everyone jump.  The sergeant had two others there that took the private and bodily threw him from the tent as the sergeant morphed into a fire and brimstone messenger, telling the assembled men that anyone who thought as that private did would “join the niggers and the gooks and the Jews in eternal hellfire.”

                Nobody else had questions after that, and after what seemed an eternity, the sergeant released them. As the troops left, they were forced to sign a “class roster” saying they had attended. Jack signed in as Buck Rodgers.  He later found out that many others had signed different names and had been equally creeped out and disgusted by the “class.” A few of them reported the incident to their platoon sergeants, but nobody ever saw that sergeant again, and the issue was dropped.

                The incident just confirmed Jack’s belief that organized religion was just a way to control people and oppress others. Though in his heart, he wanted desperately to hear from a loving God that He did indeed exist.

Chapter One - After Midnight at the Shepard house.

1.

                Jack Shepard stood in the hallway of his house, looking at pictures of his family. His wife and him on their wedding day. Pictures of the kids from birth to today.  A montage of his life from the past ten years. It was the middle of the night, and he couldn’t sleep again. Things had happened in the past fifteen months that he could neither explain nor avoid. Wondrous but slightly scary things, as these events seemed to be leading him down a road he had not foreseen in his future. He felt at a crossroads of sorts. Down one way was what he had always known. Comfortable, pretty safe. A continuation of the life he had been building for twenty years.  Not too much change.  Down the other way was different.  It held unknown and unknowable things. At least unknowable from his current vantage point.  There were new things to learn down that road, customs of a culture that seemed at once so familiar yet in reality so different from his own. It held judgment from others who would think he was abandoning his faith, or ruining his current, comfortable life, who would roll their eyes when he told them of things that were happening. It held some risks for certain. The two reasons he could see travelling that road were the signs that had appeared, and the belief that the road that was so different would take him closer to God.

I'll Put it Here...or 500

This is my 500th post.  500 times I have written something.  Sometimes interesting only to me. Most probably read only be a few. All read and re-read by me. So... woohoo.... 500 posts.

Onward.

Something...interesting... has happened to me in the past fifteen months. Strange things. Inexplicable things.  Things that if I read someone else's blog about them happening, I would wonder a little at the authenticity. I have been wondering if I should share it with my blog readers / the world / anybody who cares to read about it, or keep it to myself and a few close friends.  After much prayer for discernment and opinions from people I respect, I have decided to put it here.  On my blog.  In serial form.

So, starting with the next blog, Number 501 for those of you keeping track, I'll be telling a story about a guy named Jack Shepard.  You can appease your disbelief by reading it for the enjoyment of simply reading a story. Or you can come and see me and I will show you proof of the reality of the story. 

Because what happens to Jack in the story has already happened to me.

Somewhere in the back of my head is a little Thomas, just doubting away at all that has transpired.  His voice has been loud throughout the years.  Now he is sitting in the back, shaking his head in wonder. Because he's seen those holes, the wound in the side.  The proof that there is something at work here that he is pretty sure is God.

I don't know how it ends yet, as everything is still unfolding.  But I'll put it here. Good, Bad, or whatever. Maybe someone out there can impart some wisdom to old Jack about what's going on.  Maybe it will inspire someone to give their Doubting Thomas the old heave ho from their minds and follow a path they never imagined existed.  Probably there will be lots of doubters and naysayers about the goings on.  All I ask is that you keep an open mind. All I hope is that you enjoy the story.  All I pray is for light to be shed on my path as I travel.  Please, please, if you read the story as it unfolds, I would love to hear your thoughts in the comment section.  Leave a little something for me to reflect on, would you?

So... 501... Storytime.

Do you believe?

Pine Ridge, 2013

I have just returned from the second annual trip to Pine Ridge with Bethel Lutheran Church.  We were able to raise $2895 for shingles and supplies for our friends at Re-Member, along with $138 and a box of school supplies from the Mother/Daughter brunch back in March.  Highlights from this trip for me were...

Seeing my friend Pastor Andy Nelson when he hosted our group at his cool Student Center.

Hiking in the Badlands, where nobody got hurt!

Planting seeds of new friendships with people out there.

Hanging out with friends that I made last year.

So - Here are some pictures from the adventure...


The Bethel Group, On the way!

Friday night at Pastor Andy's

PA and the boys say goodbye for now.

Saturday hiking in the Badlands

Bill giving us the pre-hike briefing

Dad's discovery from last year, fossilized turtle shell, much the worse for wear.

More Badlands

Pastor Anjanette and her daughter Sela, Paul and Frank, pondering the Badlands

Quiet time in the Sanctuary for reflection, contemplation, meditation, or a good nap.

Allen looking out over the Badlands

Old wagon found during our tour of Feather 2, the next generation of Re-Member

Visiting Wounded Knee

 

 

During the talk, this dog came directly to me, lay down as you see here, and put a paw on my leg for some attention.  It was very hard not to bring her home.  She was malnourished and a little dehydrated, but otherwise healthy.

We were given the opportunity to put tobacco prayer ties on the gate surrounding the mass grave.  Many of us took this chance to send up prayers for the victims, and for the understanding that we cannot let this sort of thing happen again.

During the work week, I helped build wheelchair ramps, decks, skirted trailers and installed bunk beds in the home below. 

These are the beds we put in.  Clean linens, and a new pillow and blanket included!  These were put in for a pair of sisters, four and six years old.

In the room, the wall had separated from the floor, I could see the ground through this crack.

The window was rigged up with some heavy plastic, wrapped around cardboard and thumb tacked to the wall.

This room was plastered with Disney princesses, much like you could find on my five year old daughters walls.  But this is poverty in action right here.

 

 

This headless, muddy doll seemed to sum things up out there.

We got this deck with stairs built, wheelchair ramp started.

The next day we finished the skirting around this trailer, and had a great time getting to know the people who lived there.

Thursday was tour day, cloudy and chilly as we passed Wounded Knee.

But by lunch at Bette's Kitchen, it was hot and sunny again.  I met and befriended a new group of Hope Girls (from Hope College in Holland, Michigan)  They were there for a two week class, so we didn't see them much.  But they were delightful, as I have found Hope students to be in the past.

This is a painting that one of our members, Bernie, acquired from a Native artist.  It was painted on old ledger paper. I think it is awesome.

 Thursday night we were treated to an extreme thunderstorm. It was incredible!  After it passed a full double rainbow appeared.  I went up onto the hill to try and get a good shot and noticed lightning in the storm as it moved on.  A little patience and a lot of shots later, I got this one.

The group with Ted and Paula on our last night there.

 We got on the road Friday morning at 5:15 and drove back to Rochester.  I think everyone had a great time.  They were a great group.   Hard working and fun to hang out with.  I hope the trip stirred something in them as it has in me, and that they will become advocates for the Lakota as well. This post scratches the surface of the stories I could tell, and every person in the picture above has stories as well.

More Later

Looking for the Good

This morning my delightful wife let me go back to bed for a little bit. As I was settling in, I heard a familiar thump on the front windows in the living room.  It sounded like a bird had mistaken our windows for a pathway to shelter.

"Honey" Came the voice of my other half from the living room.

So I headed out into the cold and looked around.  Sure enough, I found a little bird lying on it's side under our car in the driveway. I scooped it out by the feet.  Limp, floppy head and wings, no muscle tension.  It was dead.  I felt a little bad for it, as I do for all birds that die, as I am a bird kind of guy.  But fortunately it was garbage day, and I could hear the trucks coming up the hill.  Our garbage is sent to a central facility where it is burned to make electricity for the government buildings downtown.  So I figured I'd let the poor creature be cremated instead of tossing it into the woods to be eaten by scavengers.

I was about three feet from the trash can when something happened.  I can't even say what it was exactly.  A small twitch of the leg I was holding perhaps.  A shift in the wing that had just enough energy to get to my fingers.  I don't know.  But I held it up in front of my eyes again because of some slight movement, and I questioned my initial diagnosis of death.  It still hung limply in my fingers, but I saw a tiny flutter in its eyelid.  So I turned it upright very gently and cupped it in my hand.

Instead of the head flopping over limply as I expected, it opened its eyes halfway and settled into a little ball of hurt bird.

"Ah, crap." I thought to myself as I turned and started walking back into the house. There was nothing I could do but make it comfortable. I didn't know if it would live or die, but I couldn't just leave it in the cold, rainy day to suffer.

When I was in high school, I raised wild mallard ducks and Canada geese as a Konrad Lorenz type experiment on imprinting.  As my little ducklings grew, I helped them learn to swim, and eventually helped them fly by running down the long hill in our backyard, flapping my arms wildly as they followed along copying me.  They were extremely excited the first time they actually took to the sky, and would fly circles around our house quacking loudly before coming back to roost.  They all flew away and joined up with the flocks heading south that fall.

Anyway, during the raising of them, I noticed one day that one of them couldn't walk anymore.  When it tried, it looked like it had just played a rough game of dizzy izzy, and eventually it just sat there quacking at the others as they swam around and plucked at things on the lawn.  I took my sick bird to the nature center to see if they could help.  Along with learning that raising wild birds was pretty much illegal, I learned that sometimes when ducks are splashing around in hyper mode in the water during bath time, they might hit their heads on rocks or other ducks, etc. This impact can stun them.  So I took my duck home to watch it, and sure enough, within an hour or so he was back on his feet, flapping around and behaving like the rest of the flock.

So, with the help of my wonderful wife, we crafted a little basket cage for this little brown bird and I set it next to my bed to observe it while I napped.  There were two very good reasons to keep it near me in the bedroom.  First, the dogs were VERY interested in the little critter, and I didn't think it needed the stress of giant predator looking things while it was resting.  Second, my little Sweet Pea was also VERY interested in it.  And while I was hoping it was just stunned and would recover, I thought that she didn't need the stress of watching the bird die if that was what was going to happen.

I couldn't drift off to sleep very well, as every time I closed my eyes I would say a little prayer for the bird resting on my nightstand, and as I got drowsy my eyes would open a little to see if it was still breathing.

So, as I am a sucker for injured critters, I naturally became very attached very quickly to this little guy.  I knew if I woke up and it was dead that I was headed for a downer of a day.  It was a very pretty little bird.  About the size of a Robin, brown back and head with a white chest that had brown speckles on it.  The tail was reddish tinted, and the beak was more pointy than thick.  I didn't know what it was.  But I eventually drifted off, asking Tunkashilia to help my little winged relative, either by getting it up and around, or ending its suffering quickly.

I awoke to a flutter of wings and looked over to the little cage we had built.  There was my little ward, standing up, looking around with darting head movements like a bird should, and trying to squeeze through the little squares in the basket covering it! 

"Well hello!" I said. And I swear that bird stopped fluttering around and just stared at me for about thirty seconds.

So I got out of bed and took the cage out to show the girls.  My daughter was as excited as I that it was still alive, and I suggested that she come outside with me to let it go.  So we headed out to the back porch, opened up the makeshift cage, and I gently lifted it out.  I was hoping that it was well enough to really fly again.  I was pretty confident after observing it for a minute or two in the bedroom that it was strong enough, but there was only one way to find out.

With another quick prayer of thanks, I opened my hand.  My little friend flew away and up the hill into the trees! I'm certain that it preferred the trees to the cage, even though it's cold and icy rain outside, and warm and dry in our bedroom.

I cannot describe why I am so giddy about the outcome of this little adventure.  I did nothing except bring it into a warm, dry space.  But for some reason, my day got immensely brighter because of watching a little bird fly from my hands into the trees.  I realized just before I sat down to write that even when life is (metaphorically or literally) cold and rainy, if you look for the good, even a little bit can go a really long way.  My life right now is hectic, but wonderfully so.  But this little bit of good made my day so much better!

I've been focusing more on looking for the good these days.  Good memories from years gone by.  Good events happening in the day. And my soul is much happier because of it.  Go find your good.  You won't be disappointed!

Oh, and although I inexplicably failed to take pictures of the little bird, I am quite confident it was a Hermit Thrush, based mostly on the red tail.   It's always a happy day when a bird flies free.

More Later

My Father's Son

I am my father's son.  This I know to be true, as day by day, year by year, I see more of his behaviors in myself.

Tonight, my other half is working overnight. I never sleep well when she works overnights.  Perhaps because I've become accustomed to having her near.  Perhaps because I know she hears the kiddos fuss better than me.  Anyway...

Tonight I was watching some television as the kiddos were drifting off to sleep. In one scene in a diner, someone ordered an omelet.  For some weird reason I started remembering growing up and late night TV watching with my folks.  After a time, Mom would head off to bed and Dad and I would stay up watching M*A*S*H or something, and for whatever reason Dad would get up and head to the kitchen to make fried egg sandwiches. 

He would always ask as he was walking by "Do you want a fried egg sandwich?"
I would always say "Yes, please."

Eggs. Fried in a little butter. A little Miracle Whip on a couple pieces of Hillbilly Old Fashioned bread. Oh my.

Tonight at the mention of that omelet the taste of those sandwiches came rushing back, and I just had to make one.

I don't have Hillbilly bread, and the Miracle Whip people have made some changes to the formula of their spread. But I fried up an egg anyway and sat down with a cold glass of milk to enjoy it.  It didn't taste as good as the fried egg sandwiches Dad made when I was young.  But it was pretty OK.  The only thing that would have made it better is sharing one with my Dad.

Turns out that over the past forty plus years, I've really enjoyed hanging out with my Dad.  I sure hope that my kids will feel the same way about me in forty years or so.

More Later

Marine, Paramedic... Artist?

Tonight at midnight my paramedic ratings expire.

I will no longer be legally able to practice as a medic, though I will probably continue to stop at accidents, tend to sick and injured where I find them. Do what I can until the "rated" folks show up.

I'm not really sure how to feel about all of this, although I've had a good year to consider it.

Sometimes, when I see an ambulance go by with lights and (sometimes) sirens, I get a little nostalgic and remember some of the good times I had as an EMT, from my Basic days, up until I resigned as a NREMT-P from Winneshiek Medical Center in Decorah, Ia.

I remember when I started training as a Basic EMT.  The thoughts of getting rated for all sorts of things.  Wilderness medicine, CCP, water rescue...

I remember getting hired on with Zumbrota Area Ambulance as a basic, learning more from the other EMT's and medics I rode with than it seemed like I did in school.  Amazingly friendly and amazing caregivers.  I experienced things both terrifyingly awful and somewhat hilarious.  Mostly I learned the most important lesson of EMS.  Your patient is ALWAYS having a worse day than you are.  Unfortunately, the "boss" was a special kind of stupid, and did a great job of destroying the moral of the staff.  I was technically a "paid volunteer" which meant that I signed up for 24 hour shifts and got $1.00 an hour.  That went up to $9 an hour when we were paged out.  It wasn't a terribly well paying gig.  But I got lots of experience, and loved the people I worked with, if not the one I worked for.

I remember the decision to go to medic school.  Upgrading my rating from NREMT-B to NREMT-P and learning more advanced skills.  The teacher of the course had that title in name only, and we did more self study than anything else.  I'm not entirely sure, but I don't think I was the only one in the course that felt like I had been "self taught" at the end of it.  Fortunately, the group of us that went through it studied together a lot, and I felt pretty confident going into the testing that I could probably pass.

I remember much of my ride time with Tri-State Ambulance in Lacrosse, WI, learning from them how to be a paramedic.  It was during those days that I did my first CPR on a real human - a three month old child that did not survive.  While many calls during that time were heartbreaking, many others were not, and I learned tons on about every shift.

I remember sitting in front of the computer for weeks, checking for a note on the NREMT website that listed me now as a P instead of a B. (This was before the days of computerized testing with instant results)  It was nerve wracking, but oh did we celebrate when I got that P rating!

I remember applying to Winneshiek Medical Center in Decorah, Ia.  I interviewed just fine for that job.  It turned out to be a good fit for me, as they were hospital based, so I would get to help in the ED as well and learn things from the doctors and nurses I would work with.

I remember the day of my orientation very, very well.  Not for the subject material, but because my Aunt Bobbi, who had been like a second mom to me, had come around from a drug induced stupor to say her goodbyes.  She had been diagnosed with very advanced uterine cancer a little over three weeks earlier, and after surgery and many, many hard days, she had been released to my folks house for hospice care.  I left orientation in the middle and headed back to Cedar Rapids to be with my family.  Bobbi died the next day, on her birthday.

I remember my second attempt at orientation, my first few rides. The early days and months were quite fun and educational. I was amazed at how well everyone worked together when serious cases came in, and pretty soon I was part of that chaotic dance where everyone knew what to do and when to do it to give great care to the patients that came in.

I enjoyed almost all of my time at WMC.  The people I worked with, almost every doctor, nurse, medic, tech, whatever, were excellent at their jobs and fun to work with.  Unfortunately a couple of things happened that would cut short my time with WMC, and ultimately as a paramedic.

I had a few run-ins with my supervisor. Nothing big at first.  Asking why we did things certain ways when as NREMT paramedics we could be doing more. Asking why we did other things, like breathing treatments or having to be security without any training or safety measures provided.  I don't think he liked those questions, as the answers were always "Because that's how we do it here." Which of course, isn't an answer at all.

We had other meetings where he would criticize my run reports for using words that were too big, or in one case I was accused of over dramatizing the scene when I said there were many intoxicated people there that were interfering with our ability to treat the patient. I disagreed with his assessments of my writings, especially when his reports contained multiple spelling and grammatical errors, including the now famous rodeo report where a horsewoman "fell off her house, landed on her butt ox."  I wish I could say I was making that up.

As mainly a night shift worker my yearly performance ratings were, like all of the night shifters, mediocre at best.  Every year when I asked about it, I was told that since he didn't work much with us, he could not really rate our performance.  So average was what we lived with.  I wondered why we didn't do peer reviews, especially for us night shifters.  Why do the same old things that didn't work?  You guessed it. "Because that's how we do it here."

It came to a messy head after some serious and false accusations were slung around. But I pretty much had a target on my back from then on.

Adding to the stress of having to watch my back when it came to my supervisor and a few of my co-workers, I started having dreams.  Not so good dreams about patients that had died.  It was effecting my sleep patterns, which pretty much sucked anyway having to switch from nights to days and back again, and started effecting how I acted around my family.

I was grumpy and withdrawn.  Short tempered and angry. And always, always tired.  If I wasn't working I was sleeping, and even when I had extra days off I would nap.  It was easy to diagnose myself with depression, and so I cut back to PRN to relieve some of the stress.

That worked pretty well, right up until my supervisor asked me to give him my personal schedule so he could know what I was doing all of the time.  Apparently he needed to know exactly when I was available in case someone called in sick. Essentially, he wanted me to be on call from home and have that all scheduled out for his convenience.  It was a surreal conversation with him, and after describing it to my wife she uttered the words that would take me to the next adventure in my life.

"Why don't you just quit?"

We talked long and hard about that.  If I quit, I would be giving up retirement benefits as an Iowa public employee.  I would not have a regular source of income. I knew from talking to other Tri-State medics that their service had gone through some not so great administrative changes, and I didn't want to work there.  I've never been enamored with the organization of our local Gold Cross service.  So where would I work? And I liked being a medic.  I was good at the job.

Then we started thinking about the positives such a change could bring.  No more commuting an hour to Decorah  and an hour back for shifts, saving not only gas money, but stress on the Wife when I was driving home after a long shift in crappy weather.  Regular sleeping schedule, meaning hopefully less grumpy days, less napping days.  No more interactions with a boss that I had completely lost respect for.  No more dead people, broken people, awful situations. No longer having the stress of having someone's life occasionally literally depend on me being at the top of my game.

Though as we talked, I knew those all might come up again when I started working for another service.

It was decided that at the very least I would stop working at WMC. It was as if a weight was lifted from my shoulders when I handed in my resignation.  I was a little disappointed not to be able to tell someone higher up the real reasons I was leaving.  But I did have an excellent exit interview later where I was able to voice my frustrations, and tell them that if anyone else had been in charge, I would probably not be leaving.  I got to tell the HR people that when I became an EMT, I wanted to advance with my ratings, with my career.  Unfortunately at WMC the career ladder has two rungs, and my supervisor made it clear that any advancement we wanted to do would be at our own expense on our own time.  I walked away from the hospital a final time knowing I would miss lots of the people I worked with, but also knowing I had made the right decision.

Then the Wife and I talked about what would happen if I stopped being a paramedic all together.  That was really hard to wrap my head around.  I spent my twenties defining myself as a Marine.  My thirties defining myself as a paramedic. Now heading into my forties, what would I become?  We talked about what it might be like to try and do Bluefeather Workshop as my full time job.  My profession would be that of an artist.

Eventually, obviously, we landed on that path.  I am becoming a full time artist. Slowly.  Learning as I go how to market the things I create.  Learning what I really enjoy creating and focusing more on those things.

On my worst day, I fret about whether or not to spend money on a new piece of equipment, or if I should add green or blue to that piece before I put it in the kiln.  Nobody dies. I don't get spattered in anyone else's blood. Nobody pukes then spits in my face and mouth. I am not caught up in the worst moments of other peoples lives.  It may not be as dramatic or intense a lifestyle as I had as a medic, I haven't saved a life in well over a year.  But I haven't had to clean up human road kill either.  So there's that!

So, tonight at midnight my ratings expire.  I go from NREMPT-P to ARTIST.  Self employed, which is great, because I obviously can't tolerate incompetent leadership (thanks Marine Corps for raising that bar too high for most civilian employers I've crossed paths with).  No safety nets, no fall back plans. With the support of a wonderful woman who for whatever crazy reason loves me and believes in me, I will wake up tomorrow using only the term "Artist" to describe what I do for a living.  I'm not sure what to think about that day also being April Fools day.  But my parents met on that day, and they've been pretty successful thus far!

I'll miss being a medic from time to time I'm sure.  Much like I miss being a Marine from time to time.  But in my heart, I will always be both of those things.  I've earned those titles and they cannot be taken from me.

Now I'll work to earn the title of "Artist". Hoping that this is my terminal career.  Because I really do love what I'm doing now. Life has become a much happier place, and that has affected those close to me as well.  I spent twenty years learning to kill and defend my country, learning to pick up the broken pieces of others and try to help fix them.  Now I get to spend my days creating.  Useful things, beautiful things, abstract things.  Imagining. Dreaming. Making. Creating.

And I love it.

More Later