Stepping into this morning’s light, it’s the same as yesterday’s but not. My heart breaks open, knowing that, someday, I’ll have to go away. Tears of sorrow. Tears of joy. Who will come and comfort me? Who will come and comfort you after I go?
Social Media Fanfare Winner Shares Her Telework Tips
Social media has changed the way we interact with friends, family, and yes, even coworkers. As part of Telework Week 2012, Telework Exchange launched a Social Media Fanfare contest, to find the ultimate telework fan.
We sorted through hundreds of tweets, likes, posts, and tips on Facebook, Twitter, and Foursquare to pick the top fan who actively posted on Telework Week’s social media platforms. Read more below about her telework experiences as well as some of her favorite things about teleworking. Congratulations to our Telework Week 2012 Ultimate Fan.
Jessan Dunn Otis
Teleworking isn’t anything new to our Telework Week Ultimate Fan, Jessan Dunn Otis. A teleworker since May 1996, Jessan finds she can accomplish more when working from home. Not only is she more productive, but telework allows her to spend more time with her family and friends while still being able to manage her work schedule.
An independent freelance writer, editor, consultant, and mentor who works in the Providence, Rhode Island area, Jessan says telework helps her be more accessible to her local, national and international clients since she can spend more time working, and less time commuting. “[I have] a very short commute (approximately 12-14 steps),” she says. Technology tools such as her laptop computer, phone, and voice-over-Internet Protocol services help her stay connected.
Jessan knows work/life balance is key when teleworking. She takes breaks from her work schedule to go for a walk, sit in the sun, run errands, and enjoy lunch every day with her husband. “Celebrating 2nd day of #TeleworkWeek by going 4 a well-earned walk. Enough ‘time on task’ 4 now. Join me? #PVD #RI pic.twitter.com/w6rgzYtf,” she tweeted during Telework Week.
But for this full-time teleworker, Telework Week is not a once-in-a-while thing. “Alas (for some), #TeleworkWeek comes to an end today. For those of us who’ve been teleworking a long time … #DanceOn…! Cheers!” she tweeted.
Jessan can be contacted at:
website|blog http://JessanDunnOtis-Writer.com
LinkedIn: http://www.linkedin.com/in/jesssandunnotis
Twitter: @JessanDunnOtis
P.S. Ten years later Jessan’s still teleworking, now referred to as remote working. This piece was slightly edited in October, 2022.
As when you touch yourself for the first
time inside and out
Or when you have left without saying goodbye
for the last time and you do not know it yet
Like walking into a dark room where everything
is known and you are excited that
something alive and beautiful will brush
your face
Or I am the long tree whose branches
move gently wild from the wind
and leave marks on your face
that you will remember when you dream
and you will go back to stare for days
until your eyes ache
Like arms that nobody who has ever loved you
has had before or has held you more strong
than you will ever be held again
And you will weep because you know that
that is true.
(c) Jessan Dunn (DeCredico) Otis – 1985/1987 – CQ, California State Poetry Quarterly, Spring-Summer 1987, Volume 14, Number 1, p.11.
Sit down and begin to pull together a business plan, mission statement, professional introductory email, business-related text messages, informative YouTube clip, making the choice for your business’ name; and you’re faced with three truths:
* writing isn’t as easy as it appears
* everything matters
* it’s not only what you think you want to say; but, to whom, what, where, when, why and how
While any of the aforementioned endeavors can employ many mediums – i.e. video, film, radio, TV and so on – it’s likely that, at some stage, writing is crucial to the process of creating your message. Brainstorming. Whiteboards. Drafting. Formulating. Editing. Proofreading. Final content.
With that in mind, recall the first time you were under deadline and staring at a blank piece of paper or that flashing indicator on an empty screen. Dwelling too long on that memory might cause cold sweats and elevated heart rate. However, recalling that visceral experience can, also, be today’s lesson.
What your body was telling you is that you’re invested in doing the work and hitting that target with your best shot.
To convey your message always takes planning and planning equals time – whether the amount of time is an hour, day, a week or, even, years.
Because you’re invested in doing the work and hitting that deadline with your best work, everything matters. Do not edit your ideas and impulses. Be fearless. Be ridiculous. Be silly. Be serious. Be thorough. Eventually, you’ll reduce your information to become the most accurate, clear, concise, creative and effective, according to your goals, intentions and audience.
Finally, the content of and medium for your message must take into consideration the 5 Ws + HOW.
* WHO – To whom are you conveying your message? Who’s your audience?
* WHAT – What do you want them to know or learn or feel or do?
* WHERE – In what context/where are they receiving your message?
* WHEN – When are they receiving your message?
* WHY – Why are they receiving your message?
* HOW – How do you want them to respond or what do you want them to do after receiving your message?
When you’ve answered the above questions, begin to refine and repeat until you hit your target. Remember, this process requires regular reviews, readjustments, refreshing, and repeating.
Good luck!
“The more I think I know, the more I know what I don’t know.”
In these times of profound uncertainty, there’s an undercurrent of two parallel emotions.
The first emotion is fear: fear of catching and dying from COVID19; fear of not working; fear of homeschooling your children; fear of increased domestic violence; fear of sliding into suicide; and more.
The second emotion is hope: hope that you’re doing all you need to do not to succumb to the coronavirus; hope that your spouse, relative, friend, or acquaintance will survive this virus; hope that, when a vaccine is found, you’ll still have a job to go back to; hope that this tragic, global pandemic nightmare will end sooner rather than later.
Fears are stories we tell ourselves. Hope lives in the heart. Which one do you nurture?
Please, stay safe. Carry on.
~ Jessan
Weeding With My Mother
I learned to weed a garden
squatting next to my mother
Once I began to learn what was wanted
and what was unwanted
The rest was easy
Bend down
Get my hands dirty
Smell the earth
Look carefully
Make clean spaces
Talk softly.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Dedicated with Love and Memory to Helen Constance Smith Dunn ~ 1912-1980 / Until we meet again.
© Jessan Dunn Otis, June 30, 2018
The beauty of this place
Sweet, salted sea air Pine and palm Sugar sand and St. George Island – sand dollar, shark tooth “TomTom, how you doin’?” “I’m doin’ alright.” Tillie Miller Bridge between here and Tiki – Plump, Gulf shrimp and Apalach oysters Hickory smoked chicken and ribs (no rub) and sunfried jellyfish
Seagulls Sea terns Great blue herons Dolphins spyhop and blow every now and then Distant light on Dog Island in a 2:20 AM blueblacknight
Sopchoppy Eastpoint Panacea Alligator Point
A few days back Julie and Artie left, again, having returned from leaving once before and we all walked this beach, beyond the pine tree point, further than any of us had gone before – sea-silvered driftwood, beheaded brown pelican in the brambles of sea grass and pine needles Warming sun Cool, hard-packed, low tide sugar sand under bare feet Sassy leaping pine-stained, sepia rivulets
The laughing gull has returned each morning, greeting and reclaiming its territory and, more than likely, calling out “Sea urchin!” to the others that, eventually, return — glide, drift, rise and drop, land Eat, stay — then, again, depart — leaving this length of calm, shallow bay to terns, herons and egrets to forage
The beauty of this place is as intricately delicate as the silent glideflight of eleven brown pelicans in singular formation, skimming the shallow wave crests – moving from east to west – becoming, eventually, a pulsing line disappearing into the horizon
The beauty of this place
The red smirch of Crystal hot sauce spilled at the edge of a previous high tide line, scattered with Apalachicola oyster shells from our early evening appetizers, has been consumed by the storm-driven, rough chop of last night’s rain, wind and the approaching full moon Wind out of the Southeast, breaking diagonal crests of gunmetal gray and the red buoy strains on its chains as the tide shifts and the channel churns
There is violence in the beauty of this place, too – ships lost, lives swallowed whole, coyotes grab dogs, alligators grab anything
Waves meet land and visibly reverberate back into water, again –
making unmaking remaking
A broken buoy drifts Freed until it’s caught on low tide sea grass before this tide turns The sun breaches darkening, layered afternoon storm clouds to the West, while brilliantly illuminating the etched, white sandbar over there
Burble of language bounces inside my ear – “Hey! How you doin’?” heard so often it becomes as familiar and unnoticed as the wave and the air and this light
The beauty of this place is as much a mystery to me as you
Bert and Kathy, Hattie and Zack – come and met and gone Orange and onion salad, frittatas made and shared Al and Sandy, Sharon and Larry, Scotty, Doug, Gen and Ted Sun-warmed, woman laughing with Pat — LaVerne with her easy, flashing Apalach smile Kim and Tony and oystering all Monday morning across from St. Vincent because the rip was too chopped
Three brilliant, crested egrets graze along this shore, dolphins pass and blow and continue on, as heedless of us as the swarm of terns that rise and twist and glide away to feed further down on this storm-tossed, driven gloss
WOYS, Oyster Radio, 100.5 FM, plays softly as the shrouded sun journeys further West The playful pinwheel whirls and chatters, stick jammed between the weathered 1st and 2nd boards of that well-worn picnic table Just outside this open window, burlap oyster bag flaps
Steelwater, forbidding wind along this coast of Carrabelle Another invisible finger whips this water, etching new (yet ancient) patterns
Tide turns, distant sandbar, barrier beach revealed Unseen fish school as flocks follow and feed, far off
Damp, salted air Thin, singular electric line that leads from shore to dock light Whisper of wave and wind
The beauty of this place
No matter where I go nor what I do, the beauty of this place will taste like home as salt is in my tears
The apparent void dissolved The horizon I can never reach will always draw me in, seeming to want to go further than my eye can see, when the greatest daring starts within
The beauty of this place…
~ ~ ~
Dedicated to: Suzanne Creamer, Stephine McDowell, Marlene Moore, Jennifer Moro, Albert Otis, Jennifer Pickett, C.J.(Joe)Pouncey, Sassy, Judi Rundel
~ ~ ~
HoHum RV Park/Carrabelle, Florida/January-February, 2004
(c)Jessan Dunn Otis / 2004-2017
“Dirty Money”
Think of all the things you’ve done to “make money”. That, in itself, is a ridiculous concept. We don’t “make money”, the government does. We, you and I, earn money.
I started earning money as a girl – granted an allowance for accomplishing certain chores. Chores done, allowance paid. No chores done, no allowance. Some chores completed, partial payment.
Simple.
Time passed.
At 19 I landed my first “adult” job as a clerk-typist at a social service in Providence, Rhode Island. Paid weekly. Still living at home with my parents in Warwick, RI. Within a few months I fledged myself. Time to go out on my own. One room apartment on the East Side, shared bath, no parking. Independent. Earning money. Paying my own bills.
Time passed.
Many changes.
Some time later I began to see and understand better about what money, as a thing, did to folks. The earning of it, who had more of it, who had less of it and how those two conditions stratified and segregated people from and against each other. Judgements. “Better than” because one had more money. “Less than” because of having not so much money.
This is nothing to say about how the getting of that money perverted folks – what one did to get more, as if the flash and bling and apparent “power” that all that money was had made a person, somehow, superior or more influential, ultimately.
I still earn money and appreciate what it allows me to do – support a household, buy food, purchase something beautiful, share it to support a charitable cause or new initiative. There are times, however, when I think about the earlier tradition of barter – I have something you want, you have something I want, we determine a fair value, make the deal and each of us walks away satisfied and happy. Simple. Neverthemore, in most Westernized societies, barter has faded and it’s the dollar that rules.
Next time you think about money, think about what it really is – a coin or a decorated piece of paper – and, what it takes to earn it, how the having or not having it creates false and devastating divisions between us (as people and as nations); and, what’s the true value and human cost of “earning money”.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
(c) 6/8/ 2017
written by: Jessan Dunn Otis|Writer
A new spin on K.I.S.S. ~ essay
Sitting in my science class in junior high school, my desk was at the back of the room, situated to look down one of those long hall ways.
Someone was out of class and shouted out, “You’re stupid!” to someone I couldn’t see. That echoed ’round that long, empty hallway and smacked me right in my gut. What an ugly word to shout at someone.
Years later someone shared K.I.S.S. with me and there was that ugly word again. Despicable.
I’d have none of that.
From that time forward I changed that last “S” to “Sweetie”. So much better.
Words have power. They can heal or they hurt.
Mind what flows through your lips. You are responsible for what you speak and what you don’t speak.
K(eep) I(t) S(imple) S(weetie).
K.I.S.S.
~~~~~
Jessan Dunn Otis|Writer 