The Lonely Side of Following One's Bliss

Irish Times Pub, Bastion Square, Victoria, B.C.

Years ago I was walking across a rain dappled campus at the University of Victoria. I had spent a wearying week trying to find out why my student loan money hadn't been transferred to my bank account. Without the money I couldn't pay for my courses and get on with focusing on school. 

At the time, I was walking behind two professors or men in tweed (I assumed they were academics), one holding a black umbrella for both of them. They were bearded, slim fellows, one slightly bald. Heads slightly down, rain pattering on the fabric, they were chatting about Joseph Campbell and his famous line: Follow your bliss. 

Joseph Campbell

It was late afternoon and for some reason I decided to follow these  men. Maybe it was the comfort I felt in being near their company, that they were discussing a subject I knew quite well and yet didn't know. I knew the standard works of Joseph Campbell. I had read the Hero With a Thousand Faces and referenced him in the two theatre history papers I had written the year before. His advice, however, of 'follow your bliss' was not so much a result of his work and research but a lesson from his life. From what I understood, Campbell traveled the world and pieced together his ideas about myth through literature, philosophy and psychology. In the presence of a baffled business student, someone wavering between following his father, a captain of industry or doing what he loved, he told the young man to do pursue the latter. This meant becoming an artist and as it turned out, the student when on to brighter and better things instead of going into the family firm.

It was a significant discussion to overhear because I asked myself whether I knew anything about following my bliss. Absolutely nothing, was the response. An hour later, I went to the university library and dropped out of all my courses. The money wasn't supposed to arrive, it was a sign. I really couldn't stand what I was doing, namely theatre. I thought it was something I wanted but it wasn't. And it wasn't my 'bliss'.

I celebrated with a meal at my favourite Victoria pub and the next day found a job at a liquor store. I never felt such relief in my life. I had gone out on a limb and there was a safety net waiting.

I still don't know if it was the right decision but I figured it was a start. I eventually left Victoria for Vancouver and Vancouver for Niagara with the intention of Following my bliss. 

Winery Barrel Cellar, Vineland, ON.

For a long time I thought this bliss I was seeking was involved in the wine industry. That misconception, fortunately was laid to rest after a grueling harvest week as a cellar hand at a Vineland winery in the fall of 2011. I had to quit the job because of health reasons and ended up moving out of my apartment, my mother having suggested I cut my losses and house sit for her and my step-father in Essex County. (I should note I went after the winery for misrepresentation and managed to get a three-week severance pay.)

In Kingsville, I got a part-time job and applied for E.I. and managed to coast through the rest of the year and into the next. I returned to my writing and worked every morning before heading to work in the afternoon, completing a book which I am now marketing. 

This was my bliss.

But I've learned something, it has been lonely. 

My days and nights like last year are like my days and nights now. I come home, I have dinner. I watch a little t.v. to unwind then I write or read. I repeat these patterns now and then looking for opportunities to get out of the house.

Last night I went to a poetry event to read a poem that had been shortlisted for a Bookfest contest in nearby Windsor. Initially I was excited at the prospect of sharing my work to a large audience but as the day drew closer I felt that old hesitation again and the day of the reading, actually wished I could stay home instead of go out. 

It was a nice evening, the clouds were hovering over the lake and when I arrived in Windsor, I got lost, driving in the rain, finding myself on Riverside, gazing back at the bridge, a red sunset going down on the river, on the towers of Detroit, the drops on my windshield almost pink. I could have stayed there but I continued on, finding a parking place, finding the venue, a worn down bar on University Ave.

Walking in from the rain, smelling the fried food, hearing the murmur of conversations, I was a little disappointed as I glanced at the crowd. I have been writing since I was sixteen, doing my best to perfect the craft, something I started out doing for fun, little by little realizing it is the only thing that makes me happy. But every writer's group I've ever attended in Ontario, every poetry reading event or get together I meet only older people. 

No difference last night. Most of the writers I encountered were wrinkled and grey. Some were teachers, some professors, writing their part-time passion. They drank their beer, they chuckled and shared stories. When someone familiar walked through the door, there was always a person waiting to shake their hands and welcome them. I had a beer and sat at a table off to the side, the only seat available.

I was looking forward to the evening to meet some fellow writers that were about my age but once again that hope was dashed (and I intuitively knew this before I left the house). I listened to the other poets read, all the while drinking my beer, looking out the window, wishing I could leave. When it was my turn, I read my poem. It was well received, my prefacing it with a humorous story to both relax the audience and myself. In the main, I was proud of my effort and though I didn't win and it wasn't so much that I hoped to win, to be first or anything, I just wanted the opportunity to read my poem at the BookFest and potentially meet other people, hopefully my own age.

Strange now to think about those two professors this evening, to think about dropping out of UVIC, how every time I go out to be involved in my 'bliss', I meet senior citizens instead of my peers. Yes, I think I have followed my bliss but strange how it has lead me here to South Western Ontario. I feel like I'm part of a prank no one has let me in on. Campbell said to follow your bliss and doors will open for you where you didn't know doors would be. What doors? I keep asking, I see only the same walls.

I think about those famous writers in New York or France, artists who got together at salons and read their works and shared. I've never quite experienced that. I wonder if I will. 

In Kingsville, there are no writer's groups. Here, most of the people my age are married with kids. All the pretty women have wedding rings, usually diamonds, probably wed to a greenhouse owner or the son of one. 

Kingsville, I have no complaints though sometimes I feel like I'm in exile. It is a pleasant, rustic little town, a place you would want to raise a family or retire but not for someone in between everything. There are wrap around porches and new subdivisions, and people at the beach and the park. On a sunny, Sunday afternoon in autumn, it is a safe place to be. There is little excitement here, the liquor store closes at six most days and the bars are filled with retirees.

Queen St., Kingsville, ON.

I wish I had something optimistic in mind to finish here but I don't know. I think about my guitar teacher who told me that to do what you love, you must sacrifice. I never asked him how long or what the sacrifice entailed, I assumed it was something significant. 

I look up at the window now, there's a reflection of my face lit by my laptop screen in the glass. I almost swore it was a ghost. 

And I think to myself, if I saw Joseph Campbell now, even his ghost, I'd throw my shoe at him.