The Day Jobber Plan


I have been preparing and waiting expectantly for a forthcoming trip to the US and in the rush to have all the loose ends tied in time I had to put aside my advance copy of Day Job to Dream Job  until my vacation officially starts!! Can’t wait to read it! Couldn’t wait to share it!!

Ah well, back to the Day Job! 

This is the kind of rueful comment people often make when they have had a lovely holiday or a special annual summit with a like-minded tribe of people they do life with,  whether they be Harley bikers or church family.

Nursing.  This was a career which for years I had a love hate relationship with.  I loved the patients, the camaraderie shared with my colleagues and the satisfaction of inspiring developing learners.  I really struggled with bureaucracy, cluttered working environments, uniformity, institutionalisation and depersonalisation whether it showed up in patient care or employment relations.  Nevertheless I aimed high and was passionate about translating professional standards into non-profit organisations too. Eventually I gave up my career in order to further the cause I was serving at the time.  This was done with all the right motives but I soon was to realise that I had simply swapped one Day Job for another.  The dream had eluded me.  Satisfaction always seemed to fly out of the window just as I entered each new room. It was bewildering. What more could I have done to reach the goal, to catch God’s attention that I was really serious about fulfilling my purpose?

Chasing rainbows Like many genuine though deluded or driven people I fell into the trap of expecting passion and effort alone to progress the hopes and dreams I cherished.  To my credit I now have a deep resonance with the frustration of “chasing rainbows” and this itself has great value in knowing how to help others in the same boat.

The point is however long you wait, however brave a leap or however faith filled, optimistic or full of trepidation you need a plan!

I tried faith, presumption and sheer perseverance but now I have a plan! Look no further than the clearly and practically written Day Job to Dream Job by my friend Kary Oberbrunner.  I’ve been watching his amazing example of living the dream at the same time as growing income…………… and I am well on the way too!

Don’t miss this awesome strategy for happily engaging in your best work forever and making it your life’s fulfilling masterpiece

Kary has provided his new book to my readers at a ridiculous price, over 50% off retail. For just $6.99 plus shipping and handling you can get it for a limited time (copy & paste this url into your browser: Kary even includes 3 bonuses valued at $119. His videos and 200 page interactive guidebook help you customize your own escape plan.

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Sticky lies

Sticky Lies


Oh what a tangled web we weave, When first we practise to deceive! ⃰⃰


Thanks to Sherry, from Monroe, Louisiana, a Facebook friend who reminded me of this quotation today. It came to mind as she hunted in the pantry, suspecting her husband of eating HER gluten-free rice cakes. I think I might have reserved my frustration for something a little more appetising, however, the point was made!

My Mum would regularly caution me against lying. Honesty was a highly espoused value in my childhood upbringing. Like any child, I tested what I could get away with and the consequences of deception were always severe.  Rather unintelligently, at the age of three (my sister was a defenceless baby at the time) I denied being the one who had nibbled a bite out of every single chocolate in the sweet bowl.

On a couple of occasions, I lapsed into the vice of hoarding a secret stash of sweets for consumption as and when I so chose. Being found out was a majorly shameful life event! Mum used to say that if I got into the habit of lying, eventually I would lose track of what I had said to whom and ultimately I not be able to tell the difference between truth and lies! I found that hard to believe then as everything was so black and white to my simple mind. Deliberate lies were easy to spot. I thought so, when a junior school classmate told me that she and her family had moved house to our town from the sun. Lucky for me, I had previously researched facts and written a poem about the sun, I knew of the sun’s 93,000, 000 miles’ distance from earth and that it was as hot as a newly baked currant bun. (“Bun” rhymed with “sun”).

In later life, discernment is not so straightforward and we may genuinely struggle to know what to believe. At one extreme, an established legal system depends upon the sheer capacity of prosecution and defence to make the most compelling argument to the bewildered jury. However most exercising of discernment between truth and lies comes in the everyday jumble of encounters we have with each other, words, tone and body language, media messages and hype, propaganda even and fear of disapproval by embracing the “wrong” thing.

Taking a stance is a risky business unless one has a starting point, a foundational truth. Then we realise that we have already built a foundation. Yet the materials that we chose to build with, the concepts handed to us, we accepted uncritically and unquestioningly before we had the power of critical choice. Now to begin to unpick those is a daunting task indeed. Is it necessary? Many will turn a blind eye to the possibility.

I have a sense of what and why I believe and it is liberating. However there will always be new discoveries and challenges to its integrity if I choose to remain teachable. My question today is How might you be tangled? It might have happened without any conspiracy on your part, or even your permission!


Sir Walter Scott, Marmion, Canto vi. Stanza 17. Scottish author & novelist (1771 – 1832)

Trestles, Niddy-Noddys and VAT

At first I didn’t even notice Ruth. The fairly worn looking sixty-something, wore a holey nondescript baggy grey jumper covered with bits of fluff and snips. She busied herself arranging the trestle tables and registration desk and seemed welcoming if a little flustered. In the light of what I saw later that day, she had an incredibly low profile on this fortnightly “self-help” Spinners, Weavers and Felt-making day. It drew enthusiasts from as far away as Skipton, each with their own spinning wheel or portable loom. They came to enjoy the collective working atmosphere, simply to work in each other’s company! Now Ruth was certainly not drawing attention to herself! Her stature was more evident in her expertise, her confidence and her knowledgeable authority.

Ruth invited Caroline, my host and volunteer worker at Ruth’s Wingham Wool Works, to show me around the wholesale shop and cottage industry outhouses.   We stepped into shed after shed, turned corners and crossed the wool scattered yard. I started to feel awe of the stunning way in which Ruth had incorporated everything she loved in life into one distinctive statement. She employed a family of workers including her son whose Rastafarian style locks reminded me of the felt I had just witnessed a woman create that afternoon!

This remote and understated business premises was an Aladdin’s cave of materials and equipment, tools and machinery with names I had never previously encountered. I came away that afternoon with a whole new vocabulary as well as a visual treat of colour and textures. Here I might buy a miniature cotton spinning set such as Ghandi habitually used, a niddy-noddy for looping spun wool into skeins, baskets, carders and artisan yarn. Racks of higgledy-piggledy clothes airers were festooned with loops of yarn, examples of wool recipes for specific colour-ways and their resultant knitted samplers.

In addition there were buttons, hooks, felt hangings and knitted garments, boxed looms and spinning wheels imported from New Zealand and Poland. Ruth had sourced the best suppliers and she also explained that through their online business orders approximately fifty parcels a day were weighed, parcelled, picked up by the Post Office and dispatched internationally. She stroked the carding machine hopper lovingly and explained that the machine had just been re-fitted with new needles. It had a greasy, hair clogged hopper that fed into the lethal teeth of the machine to pump out soft fluffy swathes of floaty, silky hairy or even harsh fibre, each designated for a particular use. These, rolled into thick bands or tops, were then looped, weighed and sold for spinning.

Ruth couldn’t resist joining us on my “tour” and took us into the rainbow shed. Here were tonnes of wools, carded tops rolled onto half-length carpet rolls, row after row after row of singular dyed colours. Another shed housed the natural fleeces and smelled faintly of sheep. The rolled and bagged tops were named after and identified by each original breed. One mixture of wools was aptly named Shetland Humbug by its neutral stripes. Another was Bluefaced Leicester. Each breed produced wool with a characteristic quality and purpose. Ruth understood the art of choosing and combining appropriate colour and tensile strength for the task in hand. Not only this but the ply and tension as a result of the spinning would add further variables to its application! I started to glimpse the depth of Ruth’s genius.

Ruth had also been commissioned to produce adornments and pom-pom accessories for Keaton the fashion designer, had had great fun attending high society fashion shows at one end of the market and rural country wool festivals at the other! She was an internationally travelled competition adjudicator and expert, combined regular textile retreat workshops and gave tuition and advice to pilgrims who came on family holidays or intensives. These were conducted in her garden’s open sheltered workspace or conservatory, British weather permitting! In with the tuition was the provision of holiday cottage accommodation and bed and breakfast! Her husband split his time between the workshop machinery and the horticulture!

I joked about the VAT returns Ruth mentioned she was tackling in the next couple of weeks. I could not have been more surprised that she even claimed to enjoy this exercise too! One of her friends had been asking her when would she retire?

“What would you do when you retire?” Ruth asked in return.

Her friend thought a moment and surmised, “Well I’d probably have a shed in the garden with a spinning wheel and all my crafts arranged around me”. Her voice trailed off as the impact of her words hit home.

“Exactly!” Ruth retorted, “What would I do?” she laughed sarcastically.

She turned to me to tell me how she had started off and been fortunate enough at sixteen to take a very small window of opportunity to study spinning and weaving at college. The course had only run for a couple of years but she had found her “thing” early and built a life around it.

“It’s been thirty-nine years’ work but I loved every minute! And the VAT? That’s all part of life’s rich tapestry!” she laughed.

As Caroline and I drew out of the car park we left Ruth in her garden bringing in the dried guest’s bed-sheets from the washing line and her husband carding a large order for bagging in the rear shed. I was filled with respect and awe at their integrated life. I had found someone who had overcome the enemy of insignificance and ordinariness.