This morning I applied for a job. A 3-day a week office administration gig that might help me continue to be a freelance writer and still eat.
It’s always exciting to apply for work. I imagine not only the joys of weekly paycheques but also the challenges of climbing onto a streetcar in the morning and adding me to you all; breathing in as tightly as possible and not exhaling until arriving at my stop.
Sometimes there’s great eavesdropping on these commutes, but less so in the morning of course, sleep still crawling around inside skulls, brains freshly lifted from those dear, dear pillows.
And anyway folks tend to be plugged in all the live-long day now, so chatter is on the decline. Raw material for stories must come from a deeper source called imagination.
The job I’ve applied for is with the Midwives Collective of Toronto.
I’d be birthin’ babies by day (not literally) and writing obituaries by night. Not a bad way to make a dime.
The job posting intrigues and interests me. They use words like: Feminist. Anti-oppression. Diverse clientele. The collective has been open since 1983 and has gone through incredible battles just to–just to stay alive. Long before midwifery became legal in this province
I remember covering some of their brave battles way back during my days as a girl reporter with Kinesis in Vancouver. That was in the mid eighties. At the time, we were the oldest English language feminist paper in Canada. Gone now, all gone. But heck, that glorious F word still lifts my spirit and I want to be there where they live it daily. I want to smooth out the rough spots in the office, wipe a few brows, and help get those babies safely born.