This is a season of discernment for me. I'm so grateful for the work I'm doing and for the people I get to spend my days with, and yet for all this gratitude and love, I know it's time for me to be looking at PhD programs.
It has been an entirely affirming process, because I am lucky to have so many people to reflect with, to weigh the possibilities and the consequences with, to dream about the future with.
And yet whatever/whatever I choose next, I'll have to grieve letting go of many things that have become foundational to my identity. I'll have to move into something new and different, trusting that the newness is good, that the letting go doesn't necessarily mean that the old is bad.
Even in the crowd of people who have been so good about reflecting with me, I have felt so alone (and I'm aware of how irrational and real that feeling is). The gift of having so many people willing to walk with me, willing to cheer on whatever comes next, does not outweigh the reality that eventually I alone will be the one who chooses. It will be my decision.
On Tuesday I texted a friend (obnoxiously, incessantly) about how terribly lonely that realization was, how I felt so alone, that I was terrified and excited and scared. and alone. and scared.
And finally he called me (probably because he was tired of getting one word texts of just "scared." "alone." "terrified.") and reminded me that it is a privilege that I get to do this discernment, that it is a choosing I want to do, that it is a terribly terrifying thing--to choose a new season--and that he could only just tell me that all would be well.
All would be well.
It was then that I remembered that spring only comes after winter, that the beauty of the new is only possible after the death of what has been. This analogy is often lost on people in Northern California, perhaps because they have blessedly been spared three feet of snow in January. But my tears turned to giggles when I heard myself say, "I don't want to go through winter. I just want it to be spring."
I said that. out. loud.
I really did laugh at myself then and gave myself some grace.
Winter is not fun. Another (midwestern) friend and I had just been talking about how we have all our good winter clothes with us because we cannot bear giving them away--sturdy boots, thick coat, warm hat and gloves. Winter is harsh and hard and I do not miss having my breath and snot and eyes freeze.
This morning, I walked on the beach, listening to the waves and watching the birds. In the distance, there was a mound on the sand, and as I got closer I recognized it as the corpse of a seal. Crows were picking at it, and I stopped to take in the life of this creature.
The waves lapped against its body, ready to reclaim it when the tide was right.
Its life is over, yet it's sustenance for the crows and for other parts of creation.
We do not have harsh winter here, but death always means life, no matter where we are. I don't want this part of my life to die so that the next part of my life will live. I don't.
But somehow, all will be well. I'll cry more and listen more and I'll hold this discernment in perspective.
And then, then it will be spring.
It has been an entirely affirming process, because I am lucky to have so many people to reflect with, to weigh the possibilities and the consequences with, to dream about the future with.
And yet whatever/whatever I choose next, I'll have to grieve letting go of many things that have become foundational to my identity. I'll have to move into something new and different, trusting that the newness is good, that the letting go doesn't necessarily mean that the old is bad.
Even in the crowd of people who have been so good about reflecting with me, I have felt so alone (and I'm aware of how irrational and real that feeling is). The gift of having so many people willing to walk with me, willing to cheer on whatever comes next, does not outweigh the reality that eventually I alone will be the one who chooses. It will be my decision.
On Tuesday I texted a friend (obnoxiously, incessantly) about how terribly lonely that realization was, how I felt so alone, that I was terrified and excited and scared. and alone. and scared.
And finally he called me (probably because he was tired of getting one word texts of just "scared." "alone." "terrified.") and reminded me that it is a privilege that I get to do this discernment, that it is a choosing I want to do, that it is a terribly terrifying thing--to choose a new season--and that he could only just tell me that all would be well.
All would be well.
It was then that I remembered that spring only comes after winter, that the beauty of the new is only possible after the death of what has been. This analogy is often lost on people in Northern California, perhaps because they have blessedly been spared three feet of snow in January. But my tears turned to giggles when I heard myself say, "I don't want to go through winter. I just want it to be spring."
I said that. out. loud.
I really did laugh at myself then and gave myself some grace.
Winter is not fun. Another (midwestern) friend and I had just been talking about how we have all our good winter clothes with us because we cannot bear giving them away--sturdy boots, thick coat, warm hat and gloves. Winter is harsh and hard and I do not miss having my breath and snot and eyes freeze.
This morning, I walked on the beach, listening to the waves and watching the birds. In the distance, there was a mound on the sand, and as I got closer I recognized it as the corpse of a seal. Crows were picking at it, and I stopped to take in the life of this creature.
The waves lapped against its body, ready to reclaim it when the tide was right.
Its life is over, yet it's sustenance for the crows and for other parts of creation.
We do not have harsh winter here, but death always means life, no matter where we are. I don't want this part of my life to die so that the next part of my life will live. I don't.
But somehow, all will be well. I'll cry more and listen more and I'll hold this discernment in perspective.
And then, then it will be spring.
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