Soaring on wings like eagles.

My struggles coming to an end, perhaps.

I went for a run on Monday morning. Somewhere before nine, when the sun was still struggling to push through the cloud cover, I walked out of my building and started to move my feet. Running, since conquering it a decade ago, has become something of a refuge for me. When navigating life becomes complex, running is straightforward. I literally run away from my problems. For half an hour, all I have to do is put one foot in front of the other. I didn’t run to exercise, or to compensate for the laughable amount of Christmas cookies I’ve consumed this month. I ran to leave the health insurance bills and immigration documents and the difficulty I face maintaining my relationships and my not-always-positive self-image behind me.

If you’ve been keeping track over the last few months, you’ll know that I’m jobless in Germany (the straight-to-DVD sequel to Sleepless in Seattle). I’ve tried everything to find a job. Rubbed elbows with the right people, curated a perfect Resumé, refreshed my repertoire. Each month I believe that I’ve exhausted my reservoirs of strength and creativity and emotional persistence. With nothing to show for my efforts, of course. Then a rousing round of telephonic pep-talks pulls me up by my boot straps, slaps a new idea in my hands, and I walk into the next month with as much courage as I can pluck up. It’s a dwindling supply, I assure you.

I skipped my run on Wednesday to go for an interview at a bakery. For the entirety of my life, I’ve suffered under the delusion that one must simply show an iota of enthusiasm in order to be granted a job at a bakery as the person who turns around and fetches your rolls for you. Not so. For one, I’ve applied to many of those positions with my CV in hand, and simply been turned down. Secondly, I had to show up to this interview armed with every official document I’d ever been handed, accompanied by a heartfelt cover letter expressing my desire for the position. I would have scoffed, had I not been turned down for a job hanging jeans earlier in the week. I made it a damn convincing letter. Letter, CV and another twenty-seven pages proving my value at the ready, I sat and waited for my interview partner. She was twenty minutes late. After an hour and a half of explaining my heritage, the conditions under which I am legally permitted to work, and an epic battle with the printer (it won), I left, exhausted.

That interview ended with a reluctant maybe on my prospective employer’s side. She had to run some of my documents by her lawyer. In an attempt to hedge my bets, I hit the streets again on Thursday. As I walked from shop to shop with a stack of CVs in my hand, I stopped in at a furniture store. As I had with the art gallery on the opposite side of the road and the book shop down the street, I introduced myself and asked the boss if they had any part time work for me. What would you like to work as? came the answer. I nearly fell over. After failing to convince more than a hundred businesses to give me a second look, this man asked me what I’d like? We got to chatting and I explained that I’d love to work as a photographer, that I’ve edited video and worked with various social media platforms. He immediately warmed and introduced himself. He began explaining the business, the team, told me about some of his hopes for next year. I told him that I’d love to work with him. I didn’t tell him that I’d be glad just to sweep the floors in his shop. The interior was stunning. The business buys old and disused furniture from the ‘50s and ’60s and refurbishes it. In the back is a workshop where the woodwork is redone, and close to the storefront is a corner where the upholstery is finished. The whole store is lit by a smattering of warm lamps strewn across the tops of desks and consoles. He said we should meet in January. He, his business partner and I. He wants to talk about the possibility of my working there as an in-house photographer and social media wiz-kid. I ugly cried on the way home.

Eager to reinforce the habit after taking a break on Wednesday, I went for my run on Friday again. On Monday I had dragged my feet. I had only just run fast enough to escape the crushing weight of having looked for a job for five months and coming up empty. My feet barely carried me away from the shame and disappointment and fear and exhaustion. Not on Friday. On Friday I flew.

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I also happened to be listening to “Defying Gravity” from Wicked. Flight explained, then. If you enjoyed this journal, please subscribe.