Essay

The Sky Is Clear

By: Teri Pierce, 02/16/2016

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Change? Hmm, an interesting concept for me. I graduated from law school in 1981 with big ambitions. By 1985 I was a partner in my firm, and by 1990 I had been recruited to head the Employment section of a bigger Chicago law firm. I ran a department of many other lawyers, traveled every week, worked an ungodly number of hours, and made a lot of money. I was on to bigger and better things. If you had asked me, I would have told you I really liked my life, that it was exciting, that there was nothing I would want to change. Then, in 1995, I turned 40, and my father died. And everything changed.

I can't really explain it. I adored my father, and he was a religious man, while I am not religious at all. Yet a number of things occurred at the funeral that seemingly contributed to the change about to come. One was that my father's pastor told me that my father had admired my success, but worried about my spiritual health. He probably meant my lack of faith. But I had started taking yoga classes a couple of years before, and so I had already begun to explore some sense of spiritual self, unrelated to religious beliefs, and that remark regarding my father’s concerns about me really struck home, because it was so obviously true. I had no time to devote to anything but my job, so, really, how could I be involved in truly helping anyone else? OK, there was also that random remark by a female associate, I don’t recall her exact words, but the gist of it was that my life was a cautionary tale, an example of exactly what she wanted to avoid. It was a lighthearted conversation, she wasn’t being mean, and we both laughed. But it gave me pause. I knew, on some level, that she meant it. And I knew why. That next year, I negotiated my way out of my partnership, sold my home, and moved to New Mexico. Really. I'd been there a couple of times on business, and had fallen in love with it the minute I stepped out of the airport. The unbelievably blue sky, the light crisp air, the comforting presence of the mountains. But I didn't know a soul there. Everyone I knew, family and friends, thought I was crazy. Seriously crazy. A cop out. A failure. It just made no sense to them. What was I going to do? How was I going to live? I didn't know, maybe I would write the great American novel, but I didn't pause long enough to really let the fear sink in, I just went.

It is many years later now, and my life has evolved in ways I could never have predicted. I still practice law, but only part-time out of my home—it provides such good opportunities for problem solving. I teach yoga several times a week, and get to have the rewarding experience of watching people change their lives as a result. I hike with my dog, nearly every day. I see most sunrises, and most sunsets—and frequent rainbows. New Mexico has more than its share of rainbows. I have a garden, of sorts, where raspberries and Mexican primroses profusely proliferate without assistance. I have volunteered. A lot. For years I was instrumental in an organization building homes for the poor. I’ve worked on a domestic violence hotline. I’ve coached a high school mock trial team. I’ve tutor a Vietnamese woman in English, who has become a dear friend. I’ve serve on a Board for a not for profit offering dental services to the poor. And I write in my spare time. I never did anything truly "significant" in the law. I'm not a published author. I am, by some perspectives, a failure. And I wouldn't change a thing.

Changes In Life

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