Textures of change
Something has dislodged in my identity.
“The end of the year is busy blah blah blah.” I will not bore you with this trope, although it feels true for me right now. With less brain capacity, a body ready for rest and a pile of fiction books waiting to be read – this month’s piece is brief, and yes, existential.
Speaking of books, I’ve been wondering:
Which books are being written right now that I will read in the future?
What events are being set in motion that I will one day collide with?
How many happenings of this moment will I someday meet?
Today, I have I tipped out the puzzle pieces of my mind, turned them picture-side-up and sifted through the colours and shapes. Above and below, are the pieces that I recognise and are ready to be placed.
Something has dislodged in my identity. The other day a friend was telling me a story, and I found myself nodding, listening, following along... but couldn’t find the words to respond. My usual phrases felt clunky. I searched for authentic words, yet they all felt a bit old, not really me anymore. I certainly enjoyed the story, it had nothing to do with my friend. It seemed as though my relationship to receiving and responding has changed. I don’t even really know what that means.
It’s feels both completely normal and completely wild when a ‘way of working’ no longer works anymore. I keep having small moments of tripping up on myself; like old-me has forgotten the way and new-me hasn’t found it yet.
I often find it quite a relief being forced into the unknown like this.
I am lying on the osteo table. He is holding my right leg, the one that always wants attention. There is a subtle throbbing sensation, like I shove all my feelings down there and they swirl around until I find ways to release them. He is holding me so gently, and all I feel is rage. I tell him this: “It’s like I want to be beaten with a cricket bat along my leg.” He grins, “That’s not really the type of treatment I do.”
Instead of having the discomfort beaten out of me, I am left to feel it. Tears come to my closed eyes and fill with a seer suckered gingham pattern, the puckered texture undeniable. The cottage-core in me is comforted by this. The nostalgia of gingham has always turned me on.
I am being left off emails. People are forgetting my name. Someone even messaged a phone number I haven’t used for a decade, and didn’t realise I hadn’t replied weeks.
More subtle signs that parts of my identity are in limbo.
I’ve been wrestling with ‘my role’ in business ecosystems. I am not the flashy on-stage presenter, overtly-confident thought leader my 20’s self thought I would be. I no longer have these goals, yet I still feel in tension with them.
How do I want to be seen?
“I can only be seen to the depths in which I show myself.”
This has been a valiant and well used mantra of mine for many years. I am someone who has spent a lot of time and energy showing myself – (re)questing to be seen, encouraging myself to show up, daring vulnerability so I can know myself a little deeper.
Like in any good transformation process, tides of change have shifted the sands on which I stand.
As I reorganise my footing and find balance, I am updating my knowing:
“I can only be seen to the depths in which I see myself.”
I just got off a call from a corporate client. They want a proposal by the end of the year. Nope, I said. You want me at my best? I have to rest. I’d love to work with you once I’m refreshed.
I came across a freshly fallen tree. The eucalypt smell was intoxicating and I stood amongst the tangle of leaves and branches, observing the cuts and bruises it gave itself.
I looked up and saw that it had taken down a few branches from a neighbouring Iron Bark. Over and over I kept wondering,
What happened on the way down?
If you’re new here, I publish on Substack each month on the minute of the full moon. It’s a collection of my experiences over the past lunar cycle – weaving together poetry, business for good and what I learn from plants. You can learn more about my work in Business for Good and at The Regenerative Leader.