“Beauty of things imperfect, impermanent, and incomplete.”
That was the password to the file share (motherboard) at the technology company where I used to work. I was expecting, “Cloud123,” or something boring and bland like that. Not the quintessential Japanese aesthetic known as “wabi-sabi.”
I shed a tear or two when the engineer setting up my computer told me the password.
It brought me such consolation. Here I was, a mental health writer with a mission to save people from suicide, confined to an office job where I sat in a cubicle for eight hours a day composing press releases about cloud text analytics.
What about my dream? My purpose?
It was on hold. Until the economy was kinder to architects and writers.
The job clashed with who I was, what I felt as though I had been born to do; however, in some strange way it must have blended into the canvas that was my life, because it was giving us what we needed at that time: health insurance coverage and money to put food on the table.
It taught me that it’s okay if things don’t make sense.
