Back in Miami, one of my favorite pastimes was to choose someplace with a window that served caffeinated drinks, typically a cafe of some sort (though never a Starbucks), and just sit in it. My only company would be a book or some homework, maybe some bowings that needed marking; other times it might have been the shifting environment of people, servers, and sparse nature (It is Miami, after all.) By no means a unique activity, a dear friend nonetheless often affectionately commented on and was bemused by my habit, which always extended to any city I was staying in for prolonged period of time. Namely, she would point out its essential solidarity. But when she herself began to go through a particularly trying personal period, I couldn’t come up with any decent suggestions for finding some quick inner peace except finding a cafe and haunting it for a bit.
Today brought another rejection in an absurdly long losing streak, and this one, by far, has hurt the most. I don’t feel like I have many chances left, if any. Recovery is not one of my strengths. To feel like my beloved profession and world is closing me off is approaching insanity. My next bid will likely suffer if the all-consuming uncertainty is not destroyed. While I’m lucky to be in a safe place, timeline-wise, safe is not the same as desired. I am terrible at accepting my failures and words which tell me I am not “strong” enough, not “good” enough. Here is a textbook moment of flailing.
I thought back to the cafes. When I was there, I was exactly where I wanted to be in all respects, and nothing told me I could not be there. I functioned and, with the purchase of coffee or somesuch drink, was a part of the functioning environment. And so I would keep going back. If I can’t believe in myself, it doesn’t matter how much or how many others believe in me.
I need to get out more.