Quitting your teaching job mid-year has a tendency to cause people to have a few different reactions. Staring a cancer diagnosis in the face, however, allows you to look beyond what others "think is best for you" when you decide to make such a move, which is exactly what I was dealing with when the thought that began as a small flurry of snow in my mind began to pick up momentum and then finally turn into the avalanche to occur . By the time I actually voiced the actual words that I was going to do it, that thought had turned gained enough speed that it had turned into a great wrecking ball of reality. This meant that no matter what anyone could say to me I was going to jump off the proverbial "bridge"--I didn't care if financial death was waiting for me at the end. I had enough trust that the Lord could create bungy chords where there were none so that the smashing of my whole being wouldn't occur in the 11th hour.
My tax accountant was the worse. His reaction mirrored the "inner-critic" that had always lived in me.
"Cathy, you want to do what? I'm sorry, but from a tax consultant's viewpoint the tax ramifications involved make taking your retirement in one lump sum look like a really stupid decision."
He said this enough times in the beginning of our talk that finally I said, "Hey, it's not your [fucking] money. I'm not asking you for your opinion--I'm asking you if there is an alternative?" (I really didn't know. I'd invested so much of my being in the idea of having the security you find in even having a retirement fund as well as insurance and everything else that comes with a "career" that I had failed to educate myself on such matters throughout the years.)
Once this man swallowed down his shock that I'd actually dropped the "f-bomb" and that it was a missile that had been specifically targeted to be dropped on him, he said, "Well, ah hem, ah hem, yes, there are other options I believe, but you are talking to the wrong person. I deal with taxes, not retirement funds. I can tell you what type of person deals with that sort of thing."
I dismissed the haughty tone in his voice, knowing that it was his way of holding on to the contemptous pride that had always dripped from his voice when talking to the "dumb blonde" I know he considered me to be. I didn't blame him for thinking that either. After decades of filing taxes, I still didn't know whether I was supposed to file "0" or "1" on my taxes, and even why I had to pay taxes at all--my view had always been that I should be able to choose whether or not I wanted to help the government out with my money. I'm sure one could guess where I would go with that thought if I was permitted to express it. I had to suppress the equal urge to say, "Thanks for the info. I knew you'd know in which direction to point me since it's clear you think you know everything! Obviously, you musut not though since you're telling me to go talk to someone else." I also envisioned walking into his office one day, after listening to him initially rant and say things, like, "Let's just say this dream of being an artist goes somewhere....From a tax standpoint.." slam a check on his desk for about $50, 000, and say, "Here, since you were so concerned about my losing money, like it was yours, I decided to share the wealth. Maybe you'll be able to sleep better at night now." Little did he know, however, that after that conversation he was fired. (I had made a decision to cut all the naysayers out of my life. Even people like him weren't escaping the guillotine.)
Thankfully, his was the only diatribe I had to hear. Other people from whom I had to seek advice were supportive, maybe even to the point of being envious. The lady at the credit union to which I'd belonged for twenty years who'd gone through the same type of earth-shattering experience as I had and was working to salvage a marriage I suspected she wanted to just really punt-kick into the universe. The health insurance agent I spoke to about obtaining my own policy whose policy was high enough to make anyone feel like they'd been punched in the throat who said, "Hey, I envy your courage in saying, 'Screw all this security,' and attempting to follow your passion." Even my union president said, " I think it's amazing that you have something you love enough to want to pursue."
Don't think for one minute I was without great fear about this plunge I was about to take. I kept seeing msyelf as one of the diciples in the boat who are shocked into fear and who even thought who they thought was Jesus walking towards them on the water was really a ghost. This endeavor excited nothing less than the fear Peter must have felt when he decided to step out of the boat, his bit of unlikely security on those stormy waters, even though he'd received the confirmation one would need from Jesus that he was, in fact, his Lord, the savior who had the power to rescue him from any danger he faced. I could even see later being like Peter and sinking once he was, indeed, walking on the water, doing what would be considered the unreal by those other disciples who watched him, and sinking anyway despite the fact that the greatest safety he'd ever know could, in fact, keep him from actually drowning. Although I had built the kind of faith that was allowing me to get to this point, I feared that ultimately I was causing my self-destruction in doing so.
The impetus that kept my momentum going was the fact that even the supportive people I encountered had something in common. Sadly, all of them, in some way shape or form, expressed the idea that they were angry at themselves for being like the disciples who opted to find security in the boat that could easily be destroyed by the fierce winds and rain that blew around them--that they actually didn't even know what their passion in life was, and that they had no choice but to keep plodding the donkey path in order to remain secure. The feeling that this produced in my stomach, which was the need to rebel against such ideas, was so strong when I heard them state these things with such sad resignation, caused the fire in me to burn even greater--to, for once, fling myself out of the boat without a second glance backward and to skip joyfully towards an exciting advenure that could feel nothing less than what Peter must have felt when he found himself walking on water. My trust that I, too, would be pulled out of the water by Jesus's loving hand grew as I put one foot in front of the other.
Sadly, it takes huge upheavals in life to force us into this.
