At the Crossroads between Old and New

I have been flooded.  Thoughts.  Feelings.  Opportunities.  Disappointments.  Blessings.  Starting over.  Missing friends.  Out of sorts.  Out of energy.  Out of temper.  Out of underwear.  Out of grace.  Out of sync.  Out of pencils.  Out of milk.  Out of patience.  And out of depth.

There is so much new and frustrating in trying to assert myself into a world that doesn't remember my name.

And then there is the wide open church that I stumbled into that welcomed me.  They tend to be artful.  They tend to be honest.  They tend to gloss over differences and invite me to participate in the human stumble-through of life.

There is another church that I have loyalties to that dissects the scripture like a curious cat and welcomes questions and doubt and admits suffering and meets infrequently.

Then there is the first church.  The one that I explored as a child and is now a grand thing that is earnest but exclusive and sure.  They have a new building from the one I remember best, but I happen to be spending time these days in the old building where I used to run all over the place.  Everywhere I turn memories come springing upon me.  The changes the new owners have made seem strange to me and I still see the walls as green and the carpet as red and want to slide down the bannisters and sneak into the adult Sunday School class and steal sugar cubes from the coffee table.  

Ah, there is the old nursery where I'm told I rolled off the counter as a babe.  --That door used to lead to the organ pipes that I climbed up and crawled out over the sanctuary in the ceiling slot.  That tunnel has been covered up -- whatever for?  All the old windows are getting replaced, but they have no character.  And the old corners and pillars are showing age and neglect.  The drinking fountatins are still there and all the intention for worship and gathering.  Only now we worship virtuosity of music and dance... hopefully in service of story.

I am a chorus member, bowing first in a flight of 8 tiers, representing a mama of Anatevka, being reminded keenly of how much it truly takes a village... while missing my old village in Alberta.  The throat swells at moments of recognition of the immensity and universality of a wedding, a loss, a son, a stick of wood, an old forgotten church, a community of people, and feeling compelled to leave a home.

If I were to list my opportunities you would think I have nothing to complain about.  An opportunity to write narrative scenes for a professional ballet, coordinating community engagement in the arts, singing in a choir, joining a small group for weekly truth telling, reading a screenplay, announcing at track and field events, producing a play this Christmas...

Yes.  I am scared and grateful and tired.  And I still feel unsure at times or misunderstood, or simply invisible in places where I am used to being a leader.  There are groups and histories and connections that I don't share a kinship with... at least not yet.  And then there are new friends and aquaintances who take me at face value -- or at least heart value.

And I am aging and realizing that my children are becoming independent and watching my husband try on new hats of vocation and meaning.  And my couch is so large in my apartment that I can't fit all 6 chairs around the dining table.  First world problems; I know.

But these adjustments affect how I relate to my home, my family, my daily routine and myself.

I now have to drive in a car to connect.  I hadn't realized what a change that would be and how good I used to have it.  In Rosebud, I could step outside my door and wander and find communion with people and nature within minutes.  I only drove about twice a week.  Here I drive 6 days a week and find it hard to trust others outside my windows or see any evidence of kindness.  Here I have to pay to park.  Here I have to drive through rain, sometimes for several days... and yet it is lush and beautiful and familiar and sometimes downright balmy.  Priviledged Pacific Northwest problems, I know.

And yet world-wide there are similar problems post-mid pandemic: we're all scared and feel like we've been robbed.

So, how do I embrace the new and hold on to the old?

The old church is now a concert hall and theater, the old concert hall and theater often hosts tours from out of town.

The old furniture doesn't quite fit and may need to go.

The old ways are not always followed.

The old me is still inside -- sliding down the bannister when no one is looking.

The new building for the old church is a more impressive theater than the theater in the old building.

The new opportunities are fraught with the same old human problems of fear, control and habit.

The new apartment is older than floor heating but full of large growth trees and wildlife.

The new me is smaller in some ways, but honest.

At the confulence of past and present, it can feel quite unsettling for the future.

A brilliant woman in my small group is dying.  Her brain is sharp, her grace and humor intact, but her muscles no longer let her speak freely or hold up her head.  I can't handle seeing her deteriorate so rapidly, and yet... I have no clue what she is really going through.  My problems seem so small in comparison.

I have the opportunity to learn.  I get to remember what it's like to be in the chorus.  I get to watch others lead, shine and make the decisions, while I pay attention and acknowledge my instincts, even if I'm the only one who knows.

What better training for the future than to start over, try new paths, carry pieces of the history, and listen; waiting for an opportunity to lead?