A growing collection...
I am struck by how, as I start over, I'm doing all the same things in a different way to begin a life that is different, only some how the same.
Today I attended church service at my new church for the fourth time. Yup, that's right, do the math, I've been here for twenty-two-and-a-bit days and I've spent four of them at church. This morning I arrived at church at nine, sang some hymns, ate some free food, checked in with the worship coordinator, picked on the pastor, talked horses with a member, hugged an eighty-eight-year-old grandpa happy birthday, attended a Sunday school teacher's meeting, and played peek-a-boo with a gorgeous little toddler boy before I left church (with a ride) four hours later.
Hardly seems right, does it?
Or does it simply seem precisely right? (Oh yes, and I read to articles for school in there somewhere. But it was legit, I promise.)
Somehow I've found myself a church that is a combination of my Montreal and Victoria families. I don't yet know what kind of musician I'll be labeled... I've been the main proponent of contemporary, then traditional and back again. I actually think this church lacks an organist... and is looking for someone to do piano-led liturgy.
Tomorrow I have a choir audition. For a choir that is known for doing the city's yearly Messiah at Christmas time. I'm pretty sure that the conductor won't be a delightful little Italian Monréalais and I sadly know that Bus-Friend-Number-Two won't be there to roll her eyes and laugh when I gripe about things. But I know I'll end up with a choir friend eventually and that she'll likely have to have a good sense of humour about my attitude.
She won't be the first one I call when I go on new meds and need a "welcome to the club" greeting though. I mean, I have someone lined up for that role already, but she actually friended me on facebook first. I didn't have to stalk track her down through a combination of literature tastes and past thesis work.
I've found myself a new law student friend. He doesn't have great tabs on the local folk scene, nor have we exchanged dating friend advice yet, but he calls me when he's tired of the law bubble and we check out new places to eat. He doesn't foot the bill (darn) but I'm supposed to inform him when there are good concerts in town, 'cause though he doesn't know much about it, he loves to go. And But he's Irish.
I've not yet found my true partner in crime, the one I can cry with, nor the one with whom I can say completely scandalous things, but I have found the person that I likely can't sit next to in departmental lectures without getting into trouble.
Thursday is my French translation exam. I haven't yet studied, but I'll do it soon... using the French dictionary on my shelf from my time in Victoria. Next to the piano music from when I lived at home. Beside my new tin whistles, wedged beside my music for the horn to which I'm allergic. All beside Jane of Lantern Hill, which goes everywhere with me... even though I haven't read it cover-to-cover since high school.
My bed spread is the same one I bought when I moved to Victoria. The desk is most like my Montreal desk, but is not mine for keeps. The bed and bookshelves are different from either dwelling. My poor stereo still works... It's older than a 5-CD changer/dual cassette player should be and has put in more miles than most well loved and faithful cars. My photos, postcards, and posters aren't hung, but I have a lighthouse on my window and the angel my auntie gave me when I moved to Montreal hanging on my door. The angel and my Ikea chair are the only things (save Jane, my teddy, and a few books) that were with me in Montreal. It doesn't smell like any of my previous apartments. All this and somehow, my room feels more like my Prince Arthur place than any other. And I haven't even called home crying yet. Maybe it's 'cause I've already put in some quality hours curled up on my chair reading about renaissance music... but I've done that in oh-so-many places. It can't be the weather... Victoria's rain and the subsequent pressure headaches seem to have followed me... but joyfully, so has my happy lamp.
I have a second-hand bookstore. Though, for the first time in my adult life, it's not owned by someone who has lived in Montreal and spent time in The Word (so far as I know). But, it's called The Dawn Treader and has a good supply of Terry Pratchett, so I guess I'll survive.
So far, people aside, the only thing I really miss about Victoria is the bagels from around the corner (and the pain chocolate that were devilishly on my to class and teaching everyday). Which is hilarious and crazy... 'cause those are things I also missed desperately about Montreal four years ago.
I guess a good bakery is replaceable. And perhaps even a choir. A church community is made intentionally and I'm working on it. And I can sit here and write on my LJ by candlelight and Bach cello suites wherever I go.
Today at church I mused with someone over whether or not it gets easier the third time around. In a lot of ways, it doesn't. I still follow my mom's advice about sitting where a prof can read my oh-so-non-expressive face during lectures... I'm still frustrated over waiting for an email from my (former) thesis supervisor. I think the real difference is that I know what kind of people I need to round out my Ann Arbor contingent of my people collection. A person is not replaceable. But a people are. Leaving Little Man at home or Mr. Moneky-Man in Victoria wasn't easy... and they're not replaceable for who they are in my life. But I've learned that I need to replace what they are in my life. And so I'm growing my people collection... looking for one who will laugh when I ask if the department head has a hidden portal (√) and the one who will tell me to "do it. do it now!" or the one who will drink copious amounts of tea with me over a pile of homework (positions still vacant)... And with each expanding section of my people collection, I don't miss anyone person less, but I'm better able to cope here with the people God has provided. And I'm more desperate to somehow get you all together. In one place. Preferably before my funeral!
Today I attended church service at my new church for the fourth time. Yup, that's right, do the math, I've been here for twenty-two-and-a-bit days and I've spent four of them at church. This morning I arrived at church at nine, sang some hymns, ate some free food, checked in with the worship coordinator, picked on the pastor, talked horses with a member, hugged an eighty-eight-year-old grandpa happy birthday, attended a Sunday school teacher's meeting, and played peek-a-boo with a gorgeous little toddler boy before I left church (with a ride) four hours later.
Hardly seems right, does it?
Or does it simply seem precisely right? (Oh yes, and I read to articles for school in there somewhere. But it was legit, I promise.)
Somehow I've found myself a church that is a combination of my Montreal and Victoria families. I don't yet know what kind of musician I'll be labeled... I've been the main proponent of contemporary, then traditional and back again. I actually think this church lacks an organist... and is looking for someone to do piano-led liturgy.
Tomorrow I have a choir audition. For a choir that is known for doing the city's yearly Messiah at Christmas time. I'm pretty sure that the conductor won't be a delightful little Italian Monréalais and I sadly know that Bus-Friend-Number-Two won't be there to roll her eyes and laugh when I gripe about things. But I know I'll end up with a choir friend eventually and that she'll likely have to have a good sense of humour about my attitude.
She won't be the first one I call when I go on new meds and need a "welcome to the club" greeting though. I mean, I have someone lined up for that role already, but she actually friended me on facebook first. I didn't have to stalk track her down through a combination of literature tastes and past thesis work.
I've found myself a new law student friend. He doesn't have great tabs on the local folk scene, nor have we exchanged dating friend advice yet, but he calls me when he's tired of the law bubble and we check out new places to eat. He doesn't foot the bill (darn) but I'm supposed to inform him when there are good concerts in town, 'cause though he doesn't know much about it, he loves to go. And But he's Irish.
I've not yet found my true partner in crime, the one I can cry with, nor the one with whom I can say completely scandalous things, but I have found the person that I likely can't sit next to in departmental lectures without getting into trouble.
Thursday is my French translation exam. I haven't yet studied, but I'll do it soon... using the French dictionary on my shelf from my time in Victoria. Next to the piano music from when I lived at home. Beside my new tin whistles, wedged beside my music for the horn to which I'm allergic. All beside Jane of Lantern Hill, which goes everywhere with me... even though I haven't read it cover-to-cover since high school.
My bed spread is the same one I bought when I moved to Victoria. The desk is most like my Montreal desk, but is not mine for keeps. The bed and bookshelves are different from either dwelling. My poor stereo still works... It's older than a 5-CD changer/dual cassette player should be and has put in more miles than most well loved and faithful cars. My photos, postcards, and posters aren't hung, but I have a lighthouse on my window and the angel my auntie gave me when I moved to Montreal hanging on my door. The angel and my Ikea chair are the only things (save Jane, my teddy, and a few books) that were with me in Montreal. It doesn't smell like any of my previous apartments. All this and somehow, my room feels more like my Prince Arthur place than any other. And I haven't even called home crying yet. Maybe it's 'cause I've already put in some quality hours curled up on my chair reading about renaissance music... but I've done that in oh-so-many places. It can't be the weather... Victoria's rain and the subsequent pressure headaches seem to have followed me... but joyfully, so has my happy lamp.
I have a second-hand bookstore. Though, for the first time in my adult life, it's not owned by someone who has lived in Montreal and spent time in The Word (so far as I know). But, it's called The Dawn Treader and has a good supply of Terry Pratchett, so I guess I'll survive.
So far, people aside, the only thing I really miss about Victoria is the bagels from around the corner (and the pain chocolate that were devilishly on my to class and teaching everyday). Which is hilarious and crazy... 'cause those are things I also missed desperately about Montreal four years ago.
I guess a good bakery is replaceable. And perhaps even a choir. A church community is made intentionally and I'm working on it. And I can sit here and write on my LJ by candlelight and Bach cello suites wherever I go.
Today at church I mused with someone over whether or not it gets easier the third time around. In a lot of ways, it doesn't. I still follow my mom's advice about sitting where a prof can read my oh-so-non-expressive face during lectures... I'm still frustrated over waiting for an email from my (former) thesis supervisor. I think the real difference is that I know what kind of people I need to round out my Ann Arbor contingent of my people collection. A person is not replaceable. But a people are. Leaving Little Man at home or Mr. Moneky-Man in Victoria wasn't easy... and they're not replaceable for who they are in my life. But I've learned that I need to replace what they are in my life. And so I'm growing my people collection... looking for one who will laugh when I ask if the department head has a hidden portal (√) and the one who will tell me to "do it. do it now!" or the one who will drink copious amounts of tea with me over a pile of homework (positions still vacant)... And with each expanding section of my people collection, I don't miss anyone person less, but I'm better able to cope here with the people God has provided. And I'm more desperate to somehow get you all together. In one place. Preferably before my funeral!