A friend and I were chatting. Our conversation wove between current concerns, and the effects of the past on them. She is in transition.
"This is my gap year," she decided.
Having a name for the ambiguity between known history and a hopeful future made sense. As a society we are amenable to young adults who need an intermission between the Act 1 of high school and Act 2 of college. Why not offer similar grace to grown ups as they stumble between identities?
I have heard of interim pastors, who provide a margin between one minister and another. It tamps down the need to compare or take sides.
Other people I care about are navigating shifts into retirement, or parenthood, or a new city. What if we lessen the expectation that any of us can hit the ground running?
It turns out that some of my summer goals are still in the hypothetical stage. I never did revamp my closets. Irregardless of those neglected tasks, fall is imminent. Five new costuming students will show up in a few days, curious about fabric and needles, masks and capes.
I will be ready then. But I am still languishing in a gap month.
