Like a Leaf on the Current

"Avoid the holes!" Greg yells. 

I awkwardly slap the Colorado River with my paddle, effectively turning my kayak — sideways. Ahead is a stretch of fast moving water and beyond that, rapids. I have no clue what he's talking about, let alone what to avoid.

"What holes?!" I shout. 

"See up ahead where the rapids drop? That's a hole! If you get sucked in, you could drown." 

I immediately regret not You-Tubing "river rafting basics" prior to getting out on the water. Now it's too late. 

Thankfully, the stretch of river we're on is not particularly dangerous or fast. The conditions are about as ideal as you can get for learning how to kayak. But there are nuances that would have been helpful for me to know. It looks so effortless when others do it. There are much older, less athletic people paddling down the river this afternoon. Why shouldn't I be able to manage a "ducky"? 

Yes, the rubber kayak I'm paddling is called a "ducky." As if that's not enough to shame me into bravery, there is also the desire to not appear to be a total weeny in front of my boyfriend and my 19-year-old son. Plus, I'm just too prideful to abandon ship and swim to shore, so I slowly move the kayak forward and embrace whatever is coming next on this new adventure. 

I'm 58, and although I was blessed with a healthy body, I've never been particularly athletic or courageous. My previous rafting experience consisted of climbing in an oversized boat with friends and plenty of beer and little threat of danger. In many ways, throughout my life I've avoided all risk of injury and peril. 

I tend to live in my head. But on the river, thoughts can be as problematic as haystacks — if you allow them to consume you. Panicking is the worst thing you can do if your kayak begins careening out of control. Fortunately, I don't have time to panic. All I can do is go with the flow — and pray. 

Within moments, I my ducky is drawn into the swift churning current.  Technically I'm in "white water"  (although it's probably a Class I or II). And yet, its intensity is palpable. There is plenty that could suddenly go wrong. But it isn't the rushing water I need to fear. As Winston Churchill so famously said,  it is "fear itself" that's my worst enemy. 

As I hit the first white capped wave, I receive a sensory-awaking blast of cold water across my legs. The roar of the rapids engulfs me. In an instant, the strong current tosses my ducky sideways. My hands tighten round the paddle as I try to counter the rapid's motion ... and effectively turn the boat in the opposite direction. Now, I'm careening backwards through the current. Great.

The Colorado River is a great teacher. 

My mind races. Greg shouts instructions that are inaudible over the din of the rapids. My effort to paddle only serves to make things worse. For a moment, the boat lists over, taking on more water. 

Then a thought comes to me: "Stop struggling. Let the river take you where it wants you to go." 

I lift my paddle from the roiling water and surrender. I allow the river to toss me like a leaf on the current. I loosen my grip on the paddle along with my fears. The ducky turns sideways again, but at least now I can observe what's ahead. I can see I'm nearing the end of Mr. Toad's Wild Ride. 

As the waves lessen, I'm able to straighten the nose of my kayak and paddle to the calm water ahead. I am at once relieved and disappointed that the white water portion is over. There's something humbling and empowering about willingly handing yourself over to forces beyond your control. Nature is a great teacher. I've ignored Her for too long. 

Most of my life, I've managed to remain safely on the shore. And yet, how many times have I been tossed about by life's turbulent waters? Hidden haystacks have sucked me under, leaving me afraid to move forward. 

I tend to live in my head, which can be super helpful when I'm composing a story — and downright dangerous when I'm faced with real physical peril. There have been too many times in my life when I over-responded to hazards and made matters worse. 

Too often when I've relied upon my mind to figure things out, my thoughts have sent me spinning in circles. When I remain centered and present, difficulties tend to wash over me with minimal impact. 

Sitting on a mediation cushion, I've learned a lot about how my mind works. In the safety of the dharma center, I've listened to many wise lessons. But the Colorado may be the greatest guru of all.

Resigned to Happiness

 I loved my work. My supervisors were thoughtful and supportive. My colleagues were smart, fun, and caring. That's how I knew it was the right decision for me to resign. 

It's easy to quit a job that sucks. When you're over-worked, have to contend with jerks, and feel you have no future or purpose, resigning is a no-brainer. The true litmus test of knowing if it's the right move to step away from a job is when you're happy, and you still know deep down in your heart that you need to move on. In other words, you resign when quitting isn't a knee-jerk reaction. 

My decision was influenced by a number of factors, namely: my son's departure for college, a traumatic break-up that led to the start of a wonderful, new relationship, my desire to spend more time writing and traveling with my new beau, and —last but not least — the COVID-19 global pandemic, which altered my work dynamic when travel came to a screeching halt. 

Do we need to resign from ego in order to
 re-sign to what is truest to ourselves

Any one of those motivators would not have pushed me to resign a good job in an uncertain economy. But taken as a whole, my choice was clear: I needed to step away from full-time employment in order to regain balance and live in alignment with my priorities, goals, and dreams. But I didn't just up and quit. 

Because I loved my work and my colleagues, I gave more than a month's notice to provide time to hire my replacement. And that's when something really interesting occurred: As soon as I set my end date, I felt more empowered. 

After I tendered my resignation, I no longer had an agenda. I felt secure voicing my opinion if I felt it served the greater good. I've never been one to burn bridges. I wasn't an asshole, but I felt safe being candid. 

I also found it easier to set healthy boundaries. I didn't get caught up in company politics or gossip. (Of course, many of the convos were around returning to the office, which no longer applied to me.) And I declined extraneous meetings that I would have only attended pre-resignation for fear of being left out of a conversation or opportunity. 

Post-resignation, I stopped working nights and weekends. I still met all my deadlines, but I wasn't obsessed with them. I actually took time away from my computer to eat lunch. I ended my day on time so I could workout at the gym. 

Why hadn't I detached from my work in this way before? In sum: Along with my job, I resigned my ego. Maybe the secret to a happy work-life is to work as if tomorrow was your last day on the job.

Right now, as  our country takes a look at the future of the workplace, I wonder how much more productive, satisfied, and contented we would be if we detached from our ego's compulsions —to be right or perfect, to please everyone, to be better than, to be unique, to have all the answers, to fit in, to gloss over difficulties, to be in charge, or to avoid conflict at all costs. 

I wonder what would happen if we worked as though we had just tendered our resignations?