Sometimes I wish I was a gardener. Kneeling in the dirt, digging through soil and rocky earth, working around earth worms. Searching for the lush, fertile soil buried deep underneath. Dirt under my nails, the feel of the sun on my bare shoulders, soil running through my fingers. Feeling fatigued at the end of the day but fulfilled. The brilliant colors surrounding me being the sign of a job well done. The green of the leaves floating in the breeze showing me that my job is complete.

Sometimes I wish I was a painter. Alone in a room with four bare walls, surrounded only by blue lines. A fresh brush marred by a bright, vibrant color about to explode onto the white walls. The comforting stroke of the brush against the drywall being the only sound I hear. Progress measured in square feet and the job completed when those blue lines tear back to reveal perfect edges and neat lines. A job wrapped up in one little room, finished when the white wall is buried underneath color.

Sometimes I’d like to do anything but what I’m doing now. I grow weary at my job because there always seems to be a task unfinished, always one more thing added to the to do list. My job seems like it is never finished, and I grow frustrated with that. There is a sense of fulfillment and contentment when a job is finished and complete.

When I worked at a coffee shop, my job was complete with each drink I made. A perfect espresso shot tamped and pulled, topped with just the right amount of foamed milk. The whoosh and hiss of the steamer made me smile. That sound still makes me smile. As I handed each little piece of heaven to a satisfied customer, my job was complete. Then I’d wipe the steamer wand, move onto the next drink and start my job again. At the end of my shift, I’d remove my apron and hat and my job was complete until I would return the next day.

Still, even though I was reaching completion so many times in my day, I still felt slightly unfulfilled. I would watch business executives come and go, men in three piece business suits ordering their $4 lattes, and women in professional jackets and skirts that I could never afford stirring natural sugar into their coffee. I longed for a “real” job. Though I loved what I was doing, I knew there was something more. Making coffee was a part time college kid’s job, not a job for someone trying to make a living.

Then came my chance for a real job. I was able to wear clothing unstained by coffee grounds, and became one of those customers that would come and go with my reusable coffee cup in hand. Soon I longed for the other side of the counter. I missed playing with coffee beans and controlling that milk steamer. I missed that feeling of completion when a drink was well made.

Why does fulfillment always seem to be just out of reach? When will I learn that it will only come when I am content with where I am?