It was a crisp Saturday morning, still early enough for the air to have the quality of dewy freshness that the sun burns away by ten. 

I was at a cheery farmer’s market lining a road adjacent to the main street of the quintessential small Ontario town: an old stone chapel, a historic bronze-plaqued library and post office, monuments from both world wars in tribute to our forgotten dead, and boutique coffee shops, bakeries, and other local businesses modernizing the insides of hundred-year-old buildings. And I was there with some of the people I love most, my girlfriend and family.

But I couldn’t escape my head.

The two weeks leading up to that Saturday had felt like I was trapped in a looped nightmare. For two weeks in a row, I had final-round job interviews on Monday. For two weeks in a row, I was told there should be an answer by Friday of the same week. For two weeks in a row, I dragged myself through daily runs feeling like the pressure compressing the air out of my chest had increased by an atmosphere a day as I awaited a response. For two weeks in a row, I hit refresh on Gmail all Friday, slouching in my seat and sinking further into my funk each time the spinner returned no new emails. For two weeks in a row, I reached my two lowest points all year punctuated with failure, rejection, and disappointment.

As I flashed sham smiles and hollow hellos to bread bakers and honey harvesters, successfully peddling their products with their lives all figured out, my brain had contorted itself into a question mark. But the only answer I could muster was I don’t know. At twenty-five and a half, I’m unemployed and I still live at home. What am I doing with my life? I don’t know. What do I even want to do? I don’t know. What am I good at? I don’t know. Why would anyone want to hire me? I don’t know. What should I try next? I don’t know. I tried to make eye contact with every snake on Medusa's head at once and so I was frozen, turned to stone.

Lost and directionless, my future looked even more vague than my questions.

I felt like a loser.

~~~

The small black dry hard poppy seeds I planted two weeks ago have started to sprout. With water, sun, and time, the lifeless-looking seeds I held in the palm of my hand before sprinkling them into the soil have become a cluster of centimetre-high green stems adorned at the top with two leaves.

They almost certainly did not have a plan for how they wanted to grow. Or a timeline for when they expect to be a fully grown poppy. But that didn’t seem to hold them back. As I stand over them twice a day with an orange lake-filled watering can tipped at a forty-five-degree angle, I look for growth, changes, progress. Indifferent beads of water bounce off my poppies and seep into the soil around them, their immature roots taking only what they need and letting the rest sink deeper into the soil beneath them. 

Standing at the garden one morning earlier this week, a question came to me: What would my days look like if I approached them in the same way a humble poppy does its own?

An answer other than I don’t know followed: My time horizons would be my own, not those I think are expected of me. My days would be filled with calm intentional action, not a frantic frenzy of doing things to get somewhere, anywhere, other than where I am. My mind would be content with where it is and what it’s done, not all it isn’t and all it’ll never be. I might not feel like a loser because I’m in the process of discovery in one area of my life, my career.

As I think about my path converging with the way of the poppies, the words of lion tracker Renias Mhlongo play in my mind: “I don’t know where we are going, but I know exactly how to get there.”

I don’t know where I’m going in my career. And if I have a unique gift to offer the world, I don’t know what that is either. But I don’t need to know where the path goes to start walking it. When I started publishing my writing online 127 weeks ago, I didn’t know why I was doing it. And I certainly wasn’t trying to achieve anything through it. For a reason I cannot put into words it called me and I listened.

As Boyd Varty reminds me in The Lion Tracker's Guide To Life, every action—even those that lead me where I don’t want to go—has a purpose:

“As paradoxical as it sounds, going down a path and not finding a track is part of finding the track. Alex and Renias call this “the path of not here.” No action is considered a waste, and the key is to keep moving, readjusting, welcoming feedback. The path of not here is part of the path of here.” 

But I can’t keep listening, moving, and readjusting if I’m frozen. 

Like the poppies, I must have faith that even if I don’t know how far along I am, even if I don’t yet understand what my compounded daily efforts will amount to, I am in the invisible process of growing into whatever I might become.

If you have words of career wisdom whether it be tips, pointers, suggestions, or lessons from your own life, I would love to hear from you. Please leave a comment on this post or respond to this email. Thank you!

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My poppies…

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And a special thank you to Rob Tourtelot for your invaluable edits on the initial drafts of this essay.

Lots of love,

Jack

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