A NEW SONG

Change that involves leaving people and places I’m attached to, has always been, for me, a stressful mixture of sadness and untethered anxiety. Ed and I recently left the church that’s been a major part of our lives for seven years, and though I don’t regret the decision, I’ve been lost as to what I’ll do next.

“Ah, a new era,” a young friend said, and then we talked about how his use of “era” differs from mine. I, like most Boomers, think in terms of historical eras—the Victorian era, the Shakespearian era, the Great Depression era, etc.  “Era,” for the young’uns, loosely means a period or phase of life characterized by some activity or emotional state. “My confused era.” “Her traveling era.” “His money- making era.” Ones eras, in that sense, are temporary and subject to change. I like the usage, but “era” didn’t quite fit my state of mind.

The other day, Ed and I were sitting on stools at the cedar bar overlooking our river, wondering how we’ll spend our time now, whether we’ll travel and rent out our house, and, if so, how we’ll continue to give back to the world. Ed, who reads prolifically, said, “Maybe we can learn from the Australian Aborigines’ view of things.”

I listened as he told me about how Australian Aborigines see everything in the framework of music, and how, over the years, we move from some song lines in our Life Song and go on to new ones. And, as the river rushed its river sounds and a kingfisher flew up into a cedar tree, and a breeze fluttered the leaves of the cottonwoods, my whole framework shifted. A new song line. I felt my shoulders relax. I imagined a limitless sky with song notes for stars. I felt hope.

As I think back on my oh so many song lines, I smile at the fun-loving, feisty, little girl song line, and feel a little sick when I picture the exhausted, down the booze tubes line, and grateful when I remember the recovery, get your life back one. I feel wonder at the years I sang the work all the time (yep, three or four jobs at a time) song and great appreciation for that blessed retirement line and the second wind social activist one. I think of how both the right choices and the mistakes I’ve made have led me to the next right thing.

And I remember what I said to Ed when we moved to the Northwest, and again, when we decided to buy a house, and again, when we decided to go into private practice, and, again, when we decided to retire—“God didn’t bring us this far to drop us on our asses now.”

Truly. She/He will not. And I believe I’ll be provided with my new song line, one that gives back to the world, while it resonates in my heart.

I’m listening.

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