My parachute is purple: (With apologies to Sister Estelle) A book report that is thirty-five-years overdue.

It was 1989 and, looking back, my parachute was crimson. The ink on my Bachelor of Science degree in Biology had been dry a year and my teaching certificate had just arrived in the mail (the extra-postage-required, this-could-take-a-month kind of mail). I thought it would be easy to find a job. I mean, science major, endorsed in chemistry and biology, three-sport coach? Even taking into consideration my dubious basketball experience, I was a shoo-in, right? Unfortunately, my job market radius was a “reasonable” driving distance from south Seattle where my husband worked. Inside that range, the competition for high school teaching jobs was more like ants on a sugar cube than cheetah on a gazelle herd.

Though I landed a long-term sub job, the search for a permanent position was disheartening. I wanted to be a teacher in my own classroom. I longed to help teenagers discover the magic of the natural world from protons to polar bears. I wanted to sing the fight song on a big yellow bus crammed with victorious volleyball players and make half time speeches that could give a wispy five-foot-nothing the confidence of a Louisiana Tech power forward. My failure to secure a continuing contract right out of the gate made me wonder if I was pursuing the wrong dream. Maybe the ASVAB was right, and I was supposed to be a forest ranger (fitting since my parachute was fading to the color of tree bark with every application).

Perusing the bookstore shelves one day, I came across a copy of What Color Is Your Parachute? by Richard N. Bolles. Though a new edition, the book had been out for nearly twenty years by the time I discovered it. The universe clearly was sending me a message: You will figure out what you are meant to be doing with your life. Cue parachute turning blue.

I expected a well-traveled roadmap that would lead me to my perfect job, replete with directions on how to secure it expeditiously. Instead of laying it all out for me though, the author put me to work researching—not the characteristics of careers, but the characteristics of me. I was presented with a series of exercises focused on my wants and needs. Frankly, it was disorienting. I had been listening to adults give me career advice for years about the jobs I should want and exactly what I would have to do and to be to get one of these “good” jobs. Looking back on it, the whole process was entirely generic and externally directed. As a result, I had been expending all my efforts on trying to fit myself into a job. This author was pushing me to focus my energy on figuring out what job fit me. Definitely YInMnBlue parachute.

I did every task with honesty, anticipating the moment when my perfect career would reveal itself—even if it turned out to be Forest Ranger. Once completed, I was directed to show my work to someone who knew me well and cared about me. I picked my husband who dutifully sat through my lengthy presentation of the artifacts I created. At the end, in true form, he considered the evidence and pronounced, “Well, it looks like you’re supposed to be a teacher.” He is a decisive and direct man. He’s also rarely wrong.

You’d think I would have been elated. This meant I would not be forced to reach for a new dream. I hadn’t wasted 5 years at university. Teenagers marveling at atomic theory and introductory mammalogy was within reach. However, I still did not have a job. The thought of enduring more rejections was daunting. I kicked myself for wasting precious time on this stupid workbook when I could have been filling out applications from Seattle to Spokane (desperation widened my circle by three hundred miles).

Then I remembered that the point was to find a job that fit me. A job is much more than tasks, skills, or knowledge. A job is a physical and cultural environment, in a geographic location, with varying types and numbers of beings and things. I was looking for more than a paycheck. I was looking for a job in a career I had prepared for, in a place that fit my needs, working with beings and things I could connect with. Once I started looking for that job, I found it right away—at a small rural high school in the foothills. My parachute shifted to orange overnight, which was fortuitous as that was one of the school colors. (It would eventually also be my hair color for a week but that’s a story for another blog.)

In the thirty-four years since, I’ve worked in different schools and districts, continued to earn degrees, and taken on new roles. Personally, and professionally, I have evolved. My parachute has transformed through every color of the rainbow and every gradient between them. Though I don’t want or need all the same things I did when I was twenty-four, the importance of fit remains the foundation of my decisions. I still need to be challenged. I also need to feel that I contribute in meaningful ways to a team working toward a clear vision. I need opportunities to grow and to help others grow. My needs and characteristics change, in some areas at the pace of a glacier and in others like a NASCAR race. All people do and, because organizations are just places with people, they change as well. While I can honestly say that I have loved every job I have had, I can also say that when I’ve gotten the sense that the job no longer fits me, I have moved on. When I see my parachute fade to grey, I look to the horizon for a new and vibrant one to dawn.

That time has come again. I can see purple on the horizon. It’s a bit scary this time. I am not merely changing roles in a profession in which I’ve spent decades amassing the education, skills, and experience to be successful. I am letting go of one parachute in mid-air and grabbing onto a new one. Though I have been working toward this for many years, it still feels a bit like a scene from the movie Get Smart where Max is ejected from the plane through trapdoor in the bathroom . . . you know the one. Becoming an author feels like that. It is thrilling and terrifying but, most importantly, it fits me. I trust what I learned all those years ago from Richard N. Bolles. I am grabbing onto this parachute. By the way, it is a radiant aubergine.

Copyright Catherine Matthews 2024