Name.  Last, first, middle initial.

Address.  Street address, city, state, zip.

Occupation.

A seemingly simple question but, for some, laden with emotion.

My friend and I met up for coffee on Friday morning.  It was two days after leaving a job she disliked for the chance to stay home with her daughters and to take a crack at starting her own gig.  She shared with me an experience she had the day before while filling out an application.  My friend was moving along her application just fine until she came to box labeled, "occupation."  For the first time in twenty years, she stared curiously at the paper unsure of what to write.

I related 100%.  For me it was an application for a gym membership, three years earlier, that was responsible for my identity crisis.

How could this string of 10 letters, O-C-C-U-P-A-T-I-O-N, wreck such havoc?

In 2007, I left my position as dean of students and followed my husband, with three kids in tow, to Grapevine, Texas.  It was  the first time in as long as I could remember that I had no official place of employment.  But I was a working woman.  I had always been a working woman, and further more, I liked working.  I couldn't believe for the first time since I was sixteen, and working at Dunkin Donuts, that I had nothing to write in the application box.

Those boxes are made for categories such as: Business Owner, Teacher, Accountant, Law Enforcement, Administrative Assistant, or Nurse.  The space wasn't big enough to accommodate me, my story, or my unique set of circumstances.  I couldn't write, "Once respected professional temporarily stepping out of the work force, long enough to get my family settled in Texas, and then it will be right back into a job that fits nicely and neatly in your box."

No, the volume on the application couldn't be turned up high enough to hear me scream, "Wait!  You don't get it.  I just left a job - one that would have fit in your box.  I'll work again, I promise.  This is temporary.  Please don't make me leave this blank!

Instead, that two inch space wanted me to use one word to sum up my contribution to the world.  It felt bad.  I remember feeling sad and lonely and misunderstood and embarrassed, and mad, and resentful... all at once.

Then, time passed and I kept on publishing a blog post six days a week.  And readership grew.  And I made friends all over.  And Ray Wattson was born.  And our powerful, powerful message about shining became louder and louder.  And the Yellow Envelope Project emerged.  And now it is growing and growing and growing some more.  And I get emails and cards and thoughtful notes from people who visit our community every day who count on the House of Shine to get their morning off on the right foot.

And in the midst of all of that I was hired for another job that fits squarely in that two inch application box, labeled "Occupation."  And, while "Educational Administration" fits neatly in my application box once again, I am convinced my most meaningful work happens right here with you.  No office.  No paycheck.  No boss.  And no business card with an official title.

O-C-C-U-P-A-T-I-O-N  is a safety net.  It is a quick way for people to categorize and to generalize and to quickly evaluate the value of your existence.  The idea of asking "occupation" was dreamt up by who knows who for who knows what purpose.  Occupation tells us nothing about ones contribution to earth.  Certainly you can have a occupation and shine at what you do, but never will it be the case that you shine because of your occupation.

So lose the safety net.  Join us in the Community Forum labeled, Today's Post and complete my application:

Name.  Last name, first, middle initial

Address. Street address, city, state, zip.

C-O-N-T-R-I-B-U-T-I-O-N.

Shining off until tomorrow...