Lost Identity

When I first realized that I had lost my identity, I assumed it would take a year or two to reestablish it. Having moved to a small, rural town after 30 years in the city, I lived there for a year before I even realized that my identity was gone. I had never thought much about my identity, it was never anything I had voiced to myself before. But I was having trouble coming to peace in my new home, even though it was everything we had talked about wanting. Driving down the road one day, it dawned on me, “Oh, I lost my identity. No wonder I feel like this.”

In my old life, I had been a neighbor, a classmate, a boss, a coworker, a long time friend, the person who comes in regularly to order a decaf, non-fat latte. I had been Apartment 2 on Hanson Street, the one who liked to cat sit so I could watch TV in the penthouse. I was the one who went to the vet with my friend when that cat gave it up.

Now I am part of the new couple who bought the old Smith house, or the Crow house, depending upon how long you have lived in town. I work at a local magazine, so I am easy to define within that. But what do I do there? Do I write for the magazine?  No, we contract out for most of the articles and my knowledge base is a long way from forestry. Even though I love to write, the magazine is not on my list of goals.  I do business stuff, sort of, a hodge podge of things that need to be done, including answering the phone and taking care of subscriptions.

I am no longer a CFO, not by a long shot. The Deputy Commissioner title had been mysterious even in Boston, but it had an impressive ring to it, much more distinct than “business stuff, sort of”. It’s nice to have a new job just a few miles from home, but the pond is pretty small.  I have traveled from one extreme of stress to the other in record time. I hadn’t realized that the small pond would feel this quiet, a bit too soon in my career.

I have met several very nice people in this new town, and I have had more than one conversation with a few of them. Their roots are deep and their friendships well established. I rarely know what they are talking about, I have not been there when their kids were born. In Boston, I had been there when kids were born, had held them in my arms as my best friend recovered in her hospital bed. Those kids were hitting high school age right before our very eyes. Only I was now 150 miles away. 

I have some work to do. Can I find a friend who isn’t already retired, someone with whom I can compare notes, ask questions, and go snowshoeing with at a time that does not conflict with my work? Can I find work that asks more of me, that gives me a larger context and expectations, that gives me a name? 

I joined the garden club, whose goal is to make sure some nice flowers are kept up at various spots around town. I participated in the swing dance group that ran lessons in winter, making nifty flyers to post around town. This was a welcome contribution, and something easy to do. These groups allow me to dip my toes in, to spend more time with people who I like. But then we part ways; they return to their families and routines, I return to my new home, the Smith house or the Crow house, depending.

Shortly after noting the absence of my identity, I am lucky to attend a week-long artist retreat. I was selected as one of the writers to get the benefit of an endowed week of studio time for Vermont artists. I was thrilled. There are painters, sculptors, photographers, and sixteen dedicated writers, all from within the state. Our writing studios are in one building, two neat floors with a long row of doors. My room faces the river. I could spend hours here and feel content.

I am immediately at ease. The intro questions are simple; which town am I from, what am I working on. We enjoy our meals together and then people excuse themselves, simply saying they need to get back to their studios. We all know what that means, that they are on a roll. Or they are not on a roll but are determined to find their way back. 

We share work and wine in the evenings, comparing notes on painters we love or writers we hate. We rarely talk about our "other" jobs. I have no idea what most people do in their lives at home. Occasionally someone asks what I do. I say I work at a magazine, no, I do not write for it, I do business stuff sort of, and then we move on.

The evening after our public reading, there was a small bonfire behind the sculpture studio. I shared a conversation with someone who had been to studio week several years previous, when his children were still at home. He admitted that when they came to visit on Saturday night, he barely knew who they were. I admitted that I did not have any of the heart tugs that I usually feel when I am away from my husband and our motley crew of pets. I am so self contained here at the studio. It is a parallel universe. Time drifts away. I chat with my husband using the laptop video phone, so I even see his face when we speak. But I don’t feel like I am from that place, not directly. I don’t have much to say.

By the end of the week I realize why I was so comfortable at the studio. I have an identity. Just like that, by showing up, I am neatly labeled and understood. Are you a painter or a writer? I am a writer. I am one of the people in the writers studio. We write. On Thursday night we will read from what we have written. You will get to hear words from all of us, all of the writers. There will be poems, novels, and ruminations. The writers will entertain you, give you pause, take you to another place for a moment or two. That’s what we do. We write. Thank you.

When I go back home I will again be part of the couple who moved into the house on the corner, the one they painted yellow. Yes, it looks much better now, like a grand old house should. The couple who mow their lawn, who expanded the garden, who need firewood. That’s me, only most people don’t know my name. I am an image of something else, the new person. The photo is not yet developed, the face blurs behind a sentence or two.

I don’t need to be a CFO or the boss. I probably won’t be holding many babies since that bumper crop was almost 20 years ago, as my coworkers hit the borderline of needing to get it done. Nowadays my neighbors talk about their grandchildren, people whose parents I do not know. I am not known as I writer in this town, I do not stay home all day at my desk, adding to my publications.

The artist retreat has given me the gift of uninterrupted time, that is what they are known for. But it also gave me an identity, a break from being unknown. I can breath more easily, follow the simple routines. I like my label. I am not anxious to give it up. There are only seven days, so give it up I must. And really, I should. I do have a place to go home to, a place to make my own.

My estimate is probably on target, a year or two to reestablish my identity. I could become the person who bakes wonderful cakes, who puts on a great dinner party when the ingredients come together just right. The person who loves company and unexpected guests. I could become the person who someone calls when they need an opinion. The person who likes to hike and bike, at least in theory. The person who usually needs to start out slow but keeps her feet moving forward. Instead of house sitting the cat, I will learn to feed the pigs up the road so the owners can get away every now and then. We will mow the lawn and work the garden, and the neighbors will stop to talk, comparing notes on the beetles and weeds.

Suspended animation does not come comfortably to me. The gift of being a writer was a short term hiatus, an easy slot to fill, laptop in hand. This borrowed identity reminds me of what I am missing. I’ll give it back on Sunday, hitting the highway south to home, back to the unknown. I will remember this label, this parallel place. I can claim that I am a writer while I find my other names. Boss, coworker, neighbor, friend.

Written May 2, 2009