Counting down...

I'm going to leave out the historical details, for now, and say only this: I have three weeks (exactly, from today) before I begin my job, working full-time as an associate at a large corporate law firm in San Francisco. It's a great job, but I fear losing my sense of the things that matter to me now (with a year of freedom, flag-high, trailing behind me) and have mattered to me always. Everyone tells me that I will be the one to stay the course; I will be the one to remember who I am, despite the hours and the repetitive work; I will be one of the few to disregard the allure of a high salary and maintain my sense of smallness. But everyone also tells me this: working in a this type of law firm is a soul-sucking, life-altering experience that saps you of your energy and your time. I do not have the ego to believe myself invulnerable to the forces that have changed so many idealistic young people before me. And, besides, if I were truly untouched by the allure of big-firm career possibilities, I wouldn't be standing here, on the precipice, weeks away from jumping in, would I?

So why am I here? The standard answers. The practical answers. The training. The experience. To say I have held a real job (harder to find than you might imagine, at this time, in this country, in this state).

Why, then, would I choose not to be here? Why would I already be plotting my escape from this career? For all the reasons I went into law in the first place. For the idea that law makes a difference in the world. For the idea that individuals without rights deserve those rights, wherever they live, whatever their socioeconomic status, whatever their gender, whatever their race, whatever their sexual orientation, whatever their age or (dis)ability. For the idea that the environment and the creatures in it deserve protection from our mining and building and oil-sucking, pollutant-spewing operations. For the idea that making money is not an object in itself, and that we have allowed it too dominant a position in our world.

I am not walking into it blindly, but neither am I sure of the consequences of this path. Certainly, each of our choices has repercussions, and my choices (for better or worse) have led me here, but I worry over the smaller choices I will make in the next few years. I worry that I will not lead myself back out of this place--perhaps I will forget those things that have mattered; perhaps I will decide that new things matter more than the old things. I have been told that I agonize over this too much; that decisions come and go, and this is a good one, a solid one. I have a life with this decision. I have an apartment in a great city, and I will work in a respected firm. But that's not all there is. Free time, which I have cherished and fully inhabited for the past year, is incredibly valuable. No salary can compensate for its loss. This weekend, my first in my new home, was blissful and completely free. I ran along the beaches to Golden Gate Bridge in September sun; I walked for miles and miles around the city; I went to the SF MOMA to see their 75-yr retrospective installment and a pop art exhibit; I walked through North Beach's Art Walks celebration; I finished three books and started two others; I went to a farmers' market; I had dinner with a good friend; I slept well and woke up early; I drew; I wrote; I breathed with the exultant but fearful ease of someone who knows their days of completely open time are limited. These moments, though I spend most of them alone, have been beautiful and important. I want never to lose that sense of the importance of free time. Along with my values, it matters most in making me who I am. People are more human, more interesting, when they have free time and know how to spend it. I hope that I never lose my competence in spending these golden moments freely and happily.