I’m not back, but I am here.
Gladness overflows for entering into work rhythms on a campus, to have the commute to my office and anticipate the political (or not) chumming with colleagues engaged in similar callings of theological education. A rich harvest season looms ahead, with a lightness of spirit and sleight of hand in getting all kinds of overwork done, in good order. Metaphorical “balls that drop” because of growth management demands and resulting overwork seem to “bounce,” not break. A broadening container for life has been given, across multiple communities and webs of relationship, such that new paths, new partners, seem not only possible but probable. I’m here, and so very thankful. But I’m not back.
Why bother with such minimal distinctions? For one, the notion of “being back” is prohibiting me and those I love from “being here,” being present to the richness, fullness, that beckons. “How does it feel to be back?” is probably the most frequent question I’ve received in the last month upon my return from a spring-semester sabbatical. Dear co-workers are welcoming their colleague back into work-collaborations on campus, and of course, they know who this person is, right? Actually, no, they don’t. They can’t. “Being back” suggests a return but, at least when sabbaticals are well-engaged in multiple-dimensions, the journey itself prohibits any return to the pre-sabbatical person. The one who arrives on campus after a sabbatical is rarely the one who had left campus in the first place.
“Re-entry” is another notion often discussed amongst all those who truck in the practices of higher education, meaning sabbaticals in this case. “Re-entry can be a bear,” so the saying goes. After months free of campus or student responsibilities and open-ended time devoted to research and conceptual work, faculty face overwhelm and disorientation. “Re-entry blues” or in some cases, like mine, “Re-entry fullness.” Overwhelming, whether experienced negatively or positively. Requiring of some re-acclimation. But re-entry is not accurate either. The learning community that welcomes a person into its midst again after a sabbatical is rarely the one who had said farewell to him/her in the first place.
So here we are, neither ‘back’ nor ‘re-entered.’ And where is here? A threshold of many dimensions, doors, leading into
· new communities—the Nur Community (Islamic), women-centered spirit-circles, contemplative conferencing
· new work—interreligious methods unto new book-proposal, ‘naked writing’, integrative leadership in familiar circles
· new voice—musing vulnerable, budding poetic, exploratory artistic, differentiated academic, blog-plenary professorial
· new bodywork—active, internal-restful, yoga, authentic-movement, wild-heart
· new companioning—doctoral support, spiritual listening, liturgical service
How hard we strive to keep the stream the same, to slow the changing currents into an eddy or pool in which we can keep warm. We long to return to the familiar, to the warm and provisional. We spend lives attempting re-entry into what has been. How else does one learn trust, we imagine aloud, if not within protected quarters, well-defined and even predetermined? If nothing stays the same, then how can we know steadiness, stability, durability?
The irony, of course, is that the life of trust only grows across instability, change, disruption. Trust is not necessary within a harbor or in a stagnant pool. There’s so little movement or diversity that everything looks trustworthy, the same. Robust trust, on the other hand, grows out of enacted stability across ever-changing streams, relational tenacity amidst regular disruption and change. The only way to grow steadiness is to have unending situations in which to practice being steady. We never return, nor does anyone “come back.” If one is fortunate, however, one can learn to be here. One may practice finding thresholds and actually venture forth across them, learning a life of trust in new and robust ways, with tenacious and trustworthy companions.
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