It’s been exactly a year since I lost my dream job. I was a living history interpreter at The Frontier Culture museum. I was laid off with no warning or stated reason, after volunteering there for two years and working there one year.
And, it still hurts. Because it was more than just a job to me. It was my home. It was my one point of stability through dropping out of school, through the worst of an abusive relationship and the ensuing awful break-up. Through evictions, and homelessness, and depression. Through losing my first truck. And my second. Most of the time I was there, I had to walk, bike, or hitch the 6 miles to get there.
And I loved it. I loved every second of it, even when my throat was raw from talking all day, and my fingers were blistered, and my legs hurt. It made me so, so happy. Every day, I had the satisfaction of making useful and beautiful things, learning, and teaching, caring for animals, and working the land. And just having a peaceful moment by the hearth, or sitting on the rock wall watching the birds.
Even more than that, it was like having my very own Tardis. Waking up in 21st century America, going to work in 18th c. Ireland, popping over to 17th c. England to borrow a cup of flour. Sitting in the break room (which looks like it came out of the 1980s) talking about the Tour de France with people dressed for 17thc Germany, or 19th c. America.
And I don’t think I will ever get over the heartbreak of having that, and losing it.