This morning at 10:30 am - when I usually would be going into a staff meeting at MIPC - I was sitting on a wood bench at the vet clinic. A small sack of dog poop resting by my side. So this is transition. This is change. One Tuesday you're gathered with colleagues discussing a lectionary text and planning for community building events and the next week your big task of the day is to figure out if your dog has parasites. (she doesn't, by the way)
Waiting rooms do give me time to pause and think. To review the past couple of weeks since the return from vacation. I've been feted and celebrated, affirmed and congratulated. I haven't been on such an emotional high from others' appreciation since ... I can't think of any other such moment in my life. As a friend mentioned at my goodbye party Friday night, most people have to be dead to hear friends talk about them in such a manner. I'm still above ground - I'm one lucky person.
It's a humbling experience.
But here I am, on the other side of a closed door. And like a person seeking the exit of a dark room, I'm feeling my way along the walls of my days. Scour the want ads. Not too many calls for spiritual leaders on Craigslist. Update the yellowing 15-year old resume. Make a list of all the housekeeping chores that were waylayed these many years - and dread having the time to actually do them now. Bemoan the absence of old black and white movies on regular tv, and hear myself actually muttering, "when I was young, you could have your choice of old Bette Davis movies on tv".
I'm reassured by friends and mentors that entering this new season will take a little time. I need to be patient and kind to myself, give myself the space and time to explore what might and will come next.
I first need to convince myself there is a next.