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amidthestarsThis morning, I had an appointment with my very lovely therapist. We talked about writing. Specifically, we talked about pursuing writing in a more intentional way. We began with small things (like, actually write actual words in your actual life, preferably on a regular basis) and went as far as to consider the possibility of applying to creative writing programs, and maybe combining those studies with some sort of theological education, very likely in the Anglican tradition and very likely somewhere that is Not Here. The conversation surprised me. I didn't expect to talk about this, and I didn't expect to walk out of her office with thoughts of returning to grad school in my head. But here we are, googling MFA programs.
I've been living very quietly. I think that's reasonable for now - and why not forever? The last 3 years have been intense, and strange, and beautiful, and impossible, and I have emerged from it all a fairly substantial mess. I've learned a lot, certainly, and I'm continuing to learn a lot, and I know I'm making a lot of good, healthy choices and finding some surprising bits of happiness and delight but holy crap do I have shit to sort out. The idea of any sort of upheaval seems...concerning. And it's not like she's suggesting I do this tomorrow. Maybe next year, maybe the year after. But do I want it? I thought I didn't, but... maybe I do.
I told her I felt guilty about being so wayward. I did the academia thing once before and wrote a really cool thesis and then walked away so fast I can't even remember the name of it now. Then there were 3 years of monasticism. She said, "I don't think you're wayward at all. I think you're becoming yourself." Those are words I would say to any other person in my predicament, and I would do so believing them sincerely. But my absurd heart leapt wildly into discovery and broke into approximately 8 zillion pieces. After that, the thought of winding up for another leap - however far into the distance it may be - seems foolish. There is a part of me that thinks, maybe you should just give up.
I don't want that to be who I am. I don't want to be someone who gives up, or who thinks giving up is a viable option. I don't want to live a life that is...resigned. But I am wary of the belief that I can (or even ought to) take another big risk. If it were anyone else, I'd be the most wholehearted cheering section as they took their running start. I know that. But.
After the appointment, I had a bit of time to kill. It so happened that my boss and I had a meeting at a design firm near my therapist's office, and I had about an hour between when my appointment ended and my meeting began. Both offices are in a weird, mostly industrial area, where there aren't any good spots to wait. But, in the same neighbourhood is the only church supply store in the city, vaguely warehouse-y, about 50% bookstore, 25% liturgical supplies, and 25% rosaries and statues of angels.
I stuck to the books, and even there, I stuck mostly to the bibles. The rest made me feel like I was having a heart attack. I picked up all the translations I used to know, and love, and I opened them, and remembered how it felt to have them spread out on my desk in piles, comparing words, chasing nuances, starving for...everything. Answers, direction, conversation, a friend. I almost, almost bought a massive, one-volume Greek/Hebrew Interlinear Bible, because there is a past version of me who would open that thing and then not come up for air again for days, and I want her to still be alive somewhere.
Instead, I walked out with a tiny Grail Psalter, identical to the one I used to keep under my choir stall. The one from which I memorized the psalms that I used to repeat, silently, while I worked or walked. The one I used to whisper myself to sleep. The one I used to pray, from beginning to end, every time a sister died. I've read, wept, thought, sung my way through its pages so many times. It feels so much like home that I can't even open it. It's still sitting in my backpack. If I take it out I will want to fold myself into its pages, to bury myself inside them, let them consume me. I'm afraid it will not be a comfort. It used to be, but I used to be different.
I've been living very quietly. I think that's reasonable for now - and why not forever? The last 3 years have been intense, and strange, and beautiful, and impossible, and I have emerged from it all a fairly substantial mess. I've learned a lot, certainly, and I'm continuing to learn a lot, and I know I'm making a lot of good, healthy choices and finding some surprising bits of happiness and delight but holy crap do I have shit to sort out. The idea of any sort of upheaval seems...concerning. And it's not like she's suggesting I do this tomorrow. Maybe next year, maybe the year after. But do I want it? I thought I didn't, but... maybe I do.
I told her I felt guilty about being so wayward. I did the academia thing once before and wrote a really cool thesis and then walked away so fast I can't even remember the name of it now. Then there were 3 years of monasticism. She said, "I don't think you're wayward at all. I think you're becoming yourself." Those are words I would say to any other person in my predicament, and I would do so believing them sincerely. But my absurd heart leapt wildly into discovery and broke into approximately 8 zillion pieces. After that, the thought of winding up for another leap - however far into the distance it may be - seems foolish. There is a part of me that thinks, maybe you should just give up.
I don't want that to be who I am. I don't want to be someone who gives up, or who thinks giving up is a viable option. I don't want to live a life that is...resigned. But I am wary of the belief that I can (or even ought to) take another big risk. If it were anyone else, I'd be the most wholehearted cheering section as they took their running start. I know that. But.
After the appointment, I had a bit of time to kill. It so happened that my boss and I had a meeting at a design firm near my therapist's office, and I had about an hour between when my appointment ended and my meeting began. Both offices are in a weird, mostly industrial area, where there aren't any good spots to wait. But, in the same neighbourhood is the only church supply store in the city, vaguely warehouse-y, about 50% bookstore, 25% liturgical supplies, and 25% rosaries and statues of angels.
I stuck to the books, and even there, I stuck mostly to the bibles. The rest made me feel like I was having a heart attack. I picked up all the translations I used to know, and love, and I opened them, and remembered how it felt to have them spread out on my desk in piles, comparing words, chasing nuances, starving for...everything. Answers, direction, conversation, a friend. I almost, almost bought a massive, one-volume Greek/Hebrew Interlinear Bible, because there is a past version of me who would open that thing and then not come up for air again for days, and I want her to still be alive somewhere.
Instead, I walked out with a tiny Grail Psalter, identical to the one I used to keep under my choir stall. The one from which I memorized the psalms that I used to repeat, silently, while I worked or walked. The one I used to whisper myself to sleep. The one I used to pray, from beginning to end, every time a sister died. I've read, wept, thought, sung my way through its pages so many times. It feels so much like home that I can't even open it. It's still sitting in my backpack. If I take it out I will want to fold myself into its pages, to bury myself inside them, let them consume me. I'm afraid it will not be a comfort. It used to be, but I used to be different.
