Yesterday
we went down to the dive centre after breakfast and our gear was already on the
dive boat. Delana, our PADI instructor flashed us one of his rare smiles.
“You’re divers now—I set up your equipment for you.” Will, in his briefing on
the boat, said, “Ok, just head down as soon as you’re in the water—you’re
divers now, so we’ll just meet at the bottom and go from there.” John and Tanya, the lovely couple we’ve been
diving with these last few days, smiled on the boat ride back in after the trip
to the spectacular giant clams and mushroom shaped corals. “You’re divers now,”
they said. “Welcome to the most fun club in the world.”
We’re
divers now. People say it as a form of identity—as if it’s who we are, not just
a thing we do. Identity sounds fixed in its way, and pieces of it are, of
course: things like gender, race, class, religion, national origin and the
various forces that shaped you as a kid. But other parts of our identity are as
slippery and fast moving as the flashing fish we’ve been watching underwater
this week, a rainbow blur and then gone.
There are
pieces of our identity people feel happy to talk about, and pieces that seem
oddly not in good taste to mention. Funny how last year no one asked, “You’re
just out of chemo, eh?” even though the odds of a bald woman being out of chemo
(rather than choosing bald as a fashion choice) are probably about the same as
the wetsuited woman being a diver (rather than just being extra cold). At our
resort this time there was a woman in a rather-familiar looking hat that she
kept on at all times; I figured she was just out of chemo. And there was a
woman with a heavy scar on her chest where an IV port goes and I figured there
was some kind of cancer treatment there, too. But I didn’t ask either of them.
Cancer seems somehow a private form of identity, to be discussed in hushed
tones.
But perhaps
I am unprepared for even the slight shifts in the current of my life that seem
to shape my identity. In January we moved from Paekakriki to Wellington, and I
felt my identity shift with even that small trip. “You’re a city mom now,” my
kids tell me. I notice that my sense of myself as a writer shifted when the
second book was published; one book might be a fluke, but two books makes a
line and seems to mark me (to myself at least) as a writer. Naomi is off to
university soon, and that, too, seems like a looming shift in identity—I’ll be
one of those moms of kids grown and gone, hurtling towards the empty nester
identity which is likely to be ours for the rest of our lives.
How much of
our identity do we choose, and how much is chosen for us by our circumstances?
And even as I type this I see that our choices are all created by our
circumstances and we are choosing from a small subset of all
possibilities. It is a privilege to take
on the diver identity given how expensive the pursuit is; it is even a
privilege to take on the “cancer survivor” identity when in the developing
world this cancer would have killed me.
Who do I want to be next? What combination of choice and circumstance
will create the palate from which I will paint this next portrait of my
shifting identity? How do we make sense of the ways we choose and are chosen,
we write and are written by the world?
Today the
wind picked up in paradise and the dive tanks that got strapped on the dive
boat weren’t for us. Alex at the dive centre told us how lucky we had been with
the still seas and perfect weather, and we saw once again that we hadn’t even
noticed the way circumstance had written our opportunities for us as we
descended dive after dive into calm, clear waters. We had credited Chris, our
instructor in Wellington, and Delana, our instructor in Fiji, for our own easy
competence rather than the fluke of tides and winds that made our certification
journey easier last week than it would be this week. And of course Chris and
Delana have their fingerprints on our ease and competence. And Michael and I
matter too in this picture. That’s always the way, I guess, with the slippery
fishes of our identities. It is the
speakable and unspeakable parts of our public and private lives as well as the
swirl of the atmosphere around us that gives us colour and shape.
As I teach
leaders about complexity, I am continually reminded of it in my own life: the
way chance and choice weave a tapestry none of us could have predicted ahead of
time. The unexpected conversation over lunch. The gig I took at the last
minute. The lump my fingers brushed over in the shower one morning. The vague wish that got amplified into a
diving certification class that took me to Fiji one still July day, winding my
way through coral canyons 18 metres under the Pacific ocean. I have no idea
where the winds and tides will take me next, which combination of events I
choose and circumstances that choose me will thread into the tapestry of next.
But a new set of possibilities was created with this trip and with the new
colour—diver—that weaves into my future.