Written last Sunday night...
I'm rather in the middle of an identity crisis dance. Not surprising after a big move. What of me stays there? What of me is found here? Part of it is a palpable presence today: A beloved and longtime Stockton musician slid onto the organ bench at St. John's. Here, in my new life that is still forming, I have wrestled - not with the wanting to continue that particular ministry, as I enjoy 'being' with the congregation and hearing the fruits of very talented musicians at St. Anne's - but with the saying goodbye part of it...and not knowing what - if any - sort of work might be mine to grasp later. Grasp. Now, there's a word. What part of me do I own?
I am beginning some work for Grace College here. It is both the same, and yet different, from the work I've done before. The same...in that part of it involves a bit of accompanying. A post-grad soprano working on a recital presents me with the 'Queen of the Night' aria from Magic Flute (orchestral reduction...hmmmm...) I'm reminded of the 'me' that did so much accompanying in my 20's (learning a lot about orchestral opera reductions), a bit in my 30's and 40's (counting school children and choirs), a huge lot in my 49th year and beyond. Always a shifting identity within those. (I would love to have that 20's identity right now. Actually, I wish to command it to appear.) I am the same person...yet different.
I want to tighten my grasp around....well, something. But it seems I can't even tighten a grasp around me. I feel for comforting parameters around me, but there is mostly empty, undefined space.
Enter Fr. C's Year C: Proper 18 (9 September, 2007) sermon. Way before the end, I had mentally and spiritually written that check to God with 'my identity' in the amount spot. Glad to do it, actually. Freeing...immensely. I felt rather like one of the Dog Whisperer's pups, who finds its true self in not being in charge. Exhale.
Now, almost a week after writing this, I find the 'unknown' has almost become a comfortable skin. I'm not sure what color it is. Or if it's silk threads or cotton ones weaving. But it feels strangely comforting and 'right'...in ways I may not even understand yet.
