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!

I've been looking forward to this: a new beginning, a fresh start, an opportunity to hit the restart button.

In some ways, it feels like the time to make the ultimate New Year's resolutions...

I've looked into gym facilities... the equipment in my apartment complex, the school facilities near by, the classes they offer, and the Irish Dance club. I've been able to practise pilates and/yoga three days running. I've found a bank, cell phone, long distance plans... My fridge is full of healthy foods and I'm wearing my sunscreen.
I've even started to get up at a respectable hour...

My walls are white, my closets mostly empty... none of the furniture in the room is familiar to me.  I await my shipment of belongings (praying types... pray that it actually reaches me, undamaged, and without extra fees). I have mixed feelings about the emptiness of my room.  In oh-so-many ways it's lovely to have the blank slate.  But I currently lack a lot of items... like a laundry hamper, garbage bin, the books I need, or more than a weeks' worth of clothes.  I both anticipate and dread the moment it all arrives and I have to deal with it again.  I don't welcome the stress nor the time I'll have to take out of my increasingly busy schedule in order to unpack and organize, but I relish the idea of finding a place for everything... praying that there will be a space for everything.

I'm enjoying the quiet of the day... My roommate is still busy with work from the lab, but things have only barely begun for me.  I have roughly a dozen acquaintances and friends who have been so supportive already. Placement tests (yes, more theory exams) begin soon, so I'm half-heartedly reviewing but I'm also resting... from a summer that was pure chaos of some of the best things and in anticipation of a year that is said to kill.

I welcome this chance to begin anew in a new city with my happy pills.  My problems settling in Victoria were larger than myself.  As much as everything feels new, I am acutely aware of the things from my past that I carry...

Today I had the overwhelming need for Canadian news... I'm in a country whose politics I only vaguely understand, but I feel the need to listen to the TSO play for a state funeral for a man that most of my colleagues here are not familiar with.

When things go wrong with shipping and borders, i don't call home crying... not because it's not a pain nor because it is not stressful —it is all these things— but because I know that it's not my fault, has nothing to do with me, and my mom can't fix it. I'm sure that one day soon I'll crack and need to cry to mom, but for now I have the assurance that I might not be able to fix things either, but I can handle things.  I can fill out the forms, write the emails, and make the phone calls.  I can wheel-and-deal (sometimes better than my parents) and, even though the broker treats me like I'm 12, I carry a wealth of experience for my 27 years.  This is not the first time I've done this.  It's not even the second. Third time is the charm, I guess.  And more than ever before, I really feel that God has come before me.  Not that he hasn't before, but that I feel it in a very tangible way.

I may have to write more theory exams to prove myself... I may be frantically trying to track down some of the same furniture and household items I've had before. I'll likely even find myself in courses similar to ones I've already taken.  It's a weird blend between everything being new and yet the newness somehow being the same.

And I'm ready.

I'm in that place again.  Three nos.  Three yeses —two with full funding. One that has neither given me the wink, nor set me free.  Not that that last one really matters.  I didn't think that I'd feel all "been there done that" but, really, I sorta do.  And very very shortly it will no longer be the only known on my radar.  The two offers are fighting.  Not even bending over backwards, but there's free food, flights, and back-flips involved now.

And it's fascinating to watch —confusing to watch from what feels like the outside knowing that the battle is over me and my words, and yet, encouraging and affirming in ways in which I had only barely dared to dream.
 
My words.  The words I fought with, slaved over, and over-scrutinized.
Today a friend described a thesis as a Horcrux... geek pop-culture reference aside, she's right.  That thesis holds a bit of my soul... wrenched from me in the blood, sweat, and tears of the process.  And now they fight over it. For my attention.

And then I stop and think.  Realizing that it was only four years ago that I sat at another desk, on another laptop, in another city... vastly different and yet hugely the same.  I sipped my tea and pondered what it would be like to life by the ocean... wondered what my horn playing future would hold.

And now I wonder about stipend and rents and sixth-year dissertation fellowships and provost grants.  I think of VISAs and SSHRCs and Canada Council Grants.  And I wonder just how much I'll miss the ocean.  And the cherry blossoms.  But I dream about the renewed joy in leaves of the fall and the smell of the first snow.  I worry about whether the cities I visit this week will use salt that might wreak my new leather boots, and I curse my past-self for leaving my 'real' winter boots at home. I, of course, stress over which shoes to pack for the trip... and make mental notes that ballet flats and barefeet (my Victoria staple footwear all winter long) probably won't cut it.

And then I think of what facebook taught me this year.  That's right, facebook of all things.  This New Years, facebook told me that my top two words in my status were: Thesis and Johann.   Telling, yes, but not as poignant as the third word on the list: loves. 

The last verb that I remember featuring so predominantly on the status list was misses.  

And if that doesn't sum up my journey on the island these last four years —or the preceding four on that other island— I don't know what does.

What I love about a novel is how they change a person.  Not only how they shape how one views the subject matter at hand, or even the surrounding world, but how a good novel settles just below the surface or burrows deep inside and is carried there for the rest of the reader's life.

The plumbers came at 7 this morning.  The water main is my bedroom.  Thus, no matter how much my post-thesis brain thinks it deserves sleep, I was up fairly early.  But, as all thing, it's been a mixed blessing: I'm a little yawny and I'll probably be tired tonight (since I had trouble getting to sleep last night) and I'm still in my housecoat and pjs, but I've had time to sit and read my bible and journal.  *happy sigh*  Yes, I've sat down with a big ol' mug of tea and have been reading my bible and journaling.  Unbelievable.

One of my readings this morning is from Matthew, chapter 8, when Jesus calms the storm.  I was happy when I saw mostly-pain-in-the-butt-scholarly-subtitle because I love the image and really always have.  What's not to like about Jesus being all-powerful in an deep-blue and turquoise-gray oceanic setting? But then I read the passage and it really struck me:

Jesus didn't only rebuke the wind and the waves... he calmed the storm, yes, but first he rebuked his disciples: