And So… We Shall Grow Food…
Thank the freakin’ almighty… or all of my recent hard, bloody work, because… mi Filipes just gave his official notice this past week.
Yes. He will be leaving his job. That’s right… his job. That pays him money. Money that supports his family.
Uh-huh. Yup. With no job to go to.
We are officially putting our faith in the almighty universe to the test.
Not to mention our greenthumbs… Sally’s and mine. OK. Mostly mine. The child is nine. He loves the idea of planting… of growing… his own food. But he doesn’t love the idea of digging, building and creating new beds, raking, yanking weeds that have runners extending clear through to China, or any of the other remaining facking dirty work that has to be done, in fact, to make things grow.
However, just as with the universe, we have faith that our shiny new gardens shall provide.
Or… I suppose I could pole dance while slinging beer and 99 cent chicken wings get some kind of real job.
I know the feeling — my job of three years changed suddenly and very unexpectedly two weeks ago, meaning I have to make a very similar decision — should I stay and be unhappy with the new course of events or give my notice with nothing firm to jump into. I’m currently sitting in the land of having faith in the universe that everything will turn out too. It’s scary and exciting at the same time. But mainly scary. Good luck with everything. I’ll think happy thoughts.