Follow Your Bliss

I am not the person I pretend to be. This bit of information is going to come as a big surprise to some people who think they know me; even a few who think they know me really well. It’s something that my husband and daughter have only recently discovered and I think even they were more than a little surprised at first. You see, after all these years, I am admitting that I am not a nurse. Never have been, really. And I’m tired of playing that role and I’m oh, so ready to step away from it.

Oh, I went to nursing school, got a degree and took the big test to prove I knew what I was supposed to know. When I answered enough of their questions accurately, the State Board of Nursing for SC saw fit to issue me a license. They didn’t know I wasn’t a nurse, either. So, for twenty-three long years I have pretended to be one of those noble women who care for the sick and the dying. And they are noble, these women who choose this career for the right reasons. I have nothing but respect and admiration for them.

My reasons for choosing nursing as a career, however, were far less than noble. I wasn’t one of those little girls who dreamed of wearing the starched white uniform and the little pointy cap when I grew up. I never had the lofty notion that I wanted to help people in that way. I had never had role models who were nurses. Heck, I don’t think I even knew any nurses. I’ve always wanted to make a difference in the world, but not necessarily in the field of healthcare. No, I chose nursing for a very pragmatic reason.

I had been at a liberal arts college for 3 years. After taking a year off between high school graduation and the start of higher education. Because I had done so much babysitting, everyone thought early childhood education would be the "just the thing" for me and that I would be “simply wonderful” at it. So I took a few classes and, while I enjoyed them, decided that, no, it wasn’t "just the thing" for me. I then briefly thought about History and English majors. For about a week, I entertained the notion of being a sociology major. Well, more like a few days. Certainly not long enough to take any classes in that field. So you see, I had really no idea of what I wanted to be when I grew up.

I was certainly enjoying college, though. I renewed a friendship with a girl from high school and we became best friends. I had recently lost seventy pounds and was enjoying the attention of the opposite sex for the first time in my life. I spent more time in the student center playing Spades and Ping Pong than I did in class. Thank goodness there were more than a few apathetic professors who didn‘t care if you went to class or not. I had friends who would tell me what the day tests were given and I went to just enough classes to get the needed notes. Miraculously, I managed to keep a decent GPR and not get thrown out. I was having a blast!

But I wasn’t even close to graduating and Daddy was running out of patience with his darlin‘ oldest daughter. It became clear that it was time to either fish or cut bait. BestFriend was in the same situation as I was. Her mother was an office manager for a physician and BestFriend did some filing for them a couple of days a week. While there, she talked to some of the nurses who told her that nursing jobs were abundant and the pay was good. “We can always go to nursing school,” she said to me one day. “Why not?” I answered. And that’s how we decided to become nurses.

Almost from the beginning, I knew that I had made a really bad decision. I never looked forward to going to work. That's a bad way to feel about something you will probably have to do for a long time. I was afraid every day that something awful would happen, something that I couldn’t handle and then everybody would know that I was an imposter. I called in sick often. I came up with lame excuses about why I couldn't be there. “I’m sorry I can’t work tonight, but my cat is having emotional problems and I really can’t leave her alone.”

In spite of the fact that my attendance was less than perfect, my job performance was great. I managed to keep jobs. As I grew older and life happened, my attitude changed and I went to work whether I wanted to or not. Not only did I need to make sure I kept a job for financial reasons, I began to see that it was just the right thing to do. However, the fear and the dread never went away.

Eventually, I started working for Hospice. During the first few months there I thought, “Oh, wow! At last, the nursing job for me!” But I came to realize that, actually, it was still nursing and I didn’t want to be there, either. Even so,I stayed the course and even managed to get promoted to supervisor, which only made things worse. After twelve years, I finally felt like I had couldn't do it any more; I had to make some changes. I felt like I was losing my mind. So, in May of 2006, I handed in my resignation and felt peace for the first time in many years. In June, however, knowing that I still needed some income and that this was a sure thing, I went back to work as a Hospice nurse. It was only one day a week, but it was still nursing.

So, here I am twenty-three years later, playing the role I was never born for. I’ve always told myself that I stayed in nursing because of the money. I needed to work, jobs were available and it was something I could do without further education. Good reasons all. Lately, though, I’ve come to realize that I was getting a whole lot more than a paycheck out of it. I was feeding my pride.

There’s a certain cachet in being a nurse. Some people rank nurses right up there with the angels. They put us on very tall, wide pedestals and some of us don’t dare peek over the edges for fear we might fall off. We hear the reverence in our mother’s voice when she says to her friends, “My daughter is a nurse!” Former patients and their family members come up to us in public and tell us how much we mean to them. When we shop while wearing our uniforms, people look at us differently, almost like we're something holy. They assume that we are good and pure and only interested in their well being. It’s very easy to buy into that feeling, to believe you own press, so to speak.

But I’ve started feeling like I’ve sold tiny pieces of my soul in order to stay on that pedestal. I took the path of least resistance and kept doing a job that I hated because I was good at it and I was paid well for it. And people were constantly telling me how wonderful I was. I liked it when my boss got letters from families extolling my virtues and saying how they didn’t know what they would have done without me. I loved it when the other nurses came to me asking for advice. “Let’s ask Bee. She’ll know what to do.” And I puffed up with pride when the boss asked for my help on special projects or assignments.

“Besides," this must be God’s will for my life,“ I told myself as I began to grow spiritually and seek His guidance. As a Hospice nurse, I was meeting some extraordinary people who were such blessings to me. I was invited into their lives at a time when other strangers wouldn’t have been. I heard their stories and I laughed with them and cried with them. I felt like I made a difference. I felt that if God had given me the talents required to minister to these people, then surely I was where I was supposed to be, doing what I was supposed to do. And I would just have to learn to function in spite of the misery.

But what if I was wrong? What if Satan was using these talents against me, filling me with pride and self worth, making me cling to a job that made me miserable. And what if in that misery, I whined and cried so loudly that I couldn’t hear God’s voice telling me what He wanted me to do? And if I couldn’t hear him, what if I thought He had forgotten me? That he didn’t care what I did anymore? I decided I should start praying a little harder and searching for what I was really meant to do.

Joseph Campbell said, “When you follow your bliss … doors will be open to you where you would not have thought there would be doors, where there wouldn’t be a door for anyone else.” I will be 50 years old in just a bit over 2 months. I think it's time, with God’s direction, to seek out my bliss and those open doors. And maybe buy back those tiny pieces of my soul. I’ve looked over the edge of the pedestal and have found, not a sharp drop off as I had feared, but a staircase with sturdy handrails that takes you back to the bottom. And there,standing at the bottom step, are the two people I care most about, ready to catch me when I stumble.

And I am stumbling. Those doors haven’t started opening yet. Although I have my own ideas of what I would like to do with my life, I haven’t heard that still, small voice of God saying, "Yes, this is what I want for you, too." I pray daily for his answer and I know that, in time, it will come. It’s just very hard to wait.

Whatever I end up doing with my life, I will do it with my whole heart and I will praise Him as I do it. I think that’s what God wants most from us, anyway. The people who matter most to me won’t care that I’m not a nurse anymore. To them, I will still be the woman they love and who loves them fiercely in return. My family will remain the best part of my life; my soft place to land. And I’ll be most glad to be off of that pedestal. After all, I’m afraid of heights!

The Wonderful Gift by Bee L. for blog action day

Once upon a time there was a boy. Because he was much loved, he was given a wonderful gift - a large crystal sphere wrapped in a cloth of finely woven silver threads. It's intricately faceted surface sparkled with a beautiful kaleidoscope of colors; rich, warm reds, golden yellows and oranges, lush greens and spectacular blues, from the lightest icy hues to the darkest midnight tones.

It‘s breath-taking beauty, however, was only a small part of the magic of the sphere. The boy needed only to keep it clean and polished with the silvery cloth and it would provide him with all his needs. When he was hungry, he could reach inside and find nourishment. When he was thirsty, he could pour from it clear, cool water and drink until his thirst was quenched. When he was cold, he had only to hold it close and it would glow from within and warm him. When he was hot, he could lie down beside it and a gentle breeze would blow from it to cool him. During times of trouble, he could gaze into it’s depths and be comforted. And if he was lonely, he could roll it gently back and forth and a choir of angelic voices would sing to him.

Time passed and the boy grew older. As a man, he began to take his wonderful gift for granted. The cloth became trapped under a stone and he left it there, not wanting to lift the heavy rock to retrieve it. He used dirty hands to reach into the sphere for food or to pour his water and he always took more of each than he needed. He treated the sphere roughly and scratched it both inside and out He left fingerprints all over it’s sparkling surface.

Before long, the food was less abundant and less nutritious; the water became murky. The warm glow wasn’t as warm as it had once been and the cool breezes brought with them a stench. He could not see into the depths to be comforted any more and the voices no longer sang. Instead of sparkling and gem-like, the sphere’s colors were flat and dull.

Eventually, the man had a boy of his own and wanted to share the wonder of his gift. He looked at it now through clear eyes, eyes free of the scales of greed and apathy. He was deeply ashamed of how he had neglected the sphere. He was saddened to think that his son would never experience it’s magic.

It was then that he remembered the cloth. He rushed to the stone that held the cloth captive. Because he was older and the stone had become set into place, he had to work hard to pry it off of the cloth. When it was finally free, he shook it clean and looked at it. In the corner were embroidered the words “hope and diligence.” With tears flowing down his face, he went to his gift and began slowly polishing each facet one small surface at a time.

His son, who had been watching his father, understood the importance of what he was doing. He went to his father and held out his tiny hand. The man tore a piece from the cloth and gave it to him. He taught him how to use it and, together, they began the long task of saving the sphere from years of neglect. Others that had either known or heard of the original wonder of the sphere, gathered to offer their help. Soon, thousands of hands had taken small pieces of the cloth and were working steadily to restore it’s magic and beauty.

It wasn’t an easy thing to do. The sphere had been neglected a long time and the damage was great. Some came to jeer and make fun of them for working so hard. They urged the man to continue taking and taking from the sphere without thought given to the toll it might take. But the man and his helpers had grown wise and didn’t listen. They continued their work, steadfast in the hope for a complete restoration. Little by little, their diligence was rewarded. Once more, with sparkling gem-like facets, the sphere gave freely of its gifts. There was abundant food and fresh, clean water. The people were warmed and cooled and comforted. And once again, the angelic voices sang their songs.

Instead of being content to live ‘happily ever after,’ they continue to diligently clean and polish the sphere. And they teach their young to do the same, in hopes that all generations will be able to experience the wonderful gift.


It is my personal belief that God, indeed, gave us a wonderful gift - the earth. It’s beauty and grandeur far surpasses anything that man has created. It has provided us with all the necessities of life - food, water, shelter and yes, comfort. I know I have looked out over the Smoky Mountains and felt hugged by God. I love the song the earth sings to me, with it’s waterfalls and oceans and trickling streams. I love the colors it shows me in sunsets, sunrises and stormy skies.

Yet, for many years we have not kept it clean and polished. We have left our dirty finger prints all over our precious gift. I’m not talking just about major corporations dumping filth into our rivers or logging companies clear cutting our forests. That is certainly part of the desecration. But it’s also the little things that we, as individuals do on a daily basis. We take long showers, we fill our landfills with things that could be recycled. We think nothing of throwing cigarette butts out of car windows like the world is our personal ashtray. We drive when we could walk. Thousands of little things that add up to big abuse.

I am not a scientist with a magic plan. I have no statistics to spout off and show everyone exactly how much damage we are doing to our world. I am not even your typical, tree-hugging environmentalist (although I welcome the label.) I am a 50 year old, overweight wife and mother. I am, in fact, just one ordinary person. But I believe that if enough of us “just one persons” band together we can make a huge difference. We can walk more, take shorter showers. We can recycle and buy recycled goods. We can build “green” and use renewable resources to decorate our homes. We can adopt that zero-tolerance attitude towards litter and pollution. If we join together to polish it one facet at a time, we can help make our wonderful gift sparkle again. For ourselves and for our children.