Tocayas

Doing what the spirit say do...

Whooo. May was a month. I graduated from the MFA program I have been doing over the last two years. I finished the job I’ve been in for the last 8 years. My son Jacob is moving into his own place on Monday, my daughter Tessa is coming home for the summer on Tuesday - and then will be a college senior in the fall. The world is doing whatever the fuck it’s doing. The country is being run by a cold-hearted maniac. New York City is on a chaotic path to choosing a next Mayor.

My brilliant and beautiful classmates after we mastered the fine arts

But today I woke up floating. Untethered. I have empty calendar boxes stretching out in front of me, which I get to fill however I choose. I have banned myself from making a daily ‘to do’ list for the time being. It is an unprecedented luxury for me, and I don't really know what to do with myself. In moments of uncertainty, my father used to sometimes quote a civil rights song that tells us to “do what the spirit say do”, and I am trying to listen to the spirit.

I was anticipating this strange floaty state as I took the subway into work for the last time this week. Instead of listening to my usual news podcast, I spent the ride looking around at the people sitting on the Manhattan-bound Q train with me at 8:30 in the morning on a Wednesday in May. I thought about what would happen if we made a quick deal to step into each other's lives for the day. I wondered how far through their to do lists I could get. Could I make it past their building security to their desk? Could I figure out how to respond to their emails? Could I pipe up in their meetings? Could I eat their favorite Sweetgreens salad for lunch? How adaptable am I? How generic are we all? With a few context cues and some AI prompts, what is possible?

In a parallel flight of fancy, I sometimes consider responding to the messages in my gmail that are intended for other Lisa Cowans. Over the years I have developed one-sided relationships with some of these other Lisas. One is a mother of young children in Georgia - and I often get notified of her day to bring snacks to the Christian day care where her children go. I am tracking her kids development through their changing snack preferences. There is Dr. Cowan, an ophthalmologist in California, and I have gotten patient records meant for her (violating all HIPAA laws). I have gotten job offers for other Lisa Cowans, times for them to tour possible apartments, shopping receipts for their purchases at stores in London. Just this morning my google alert told me that a community-based addictions treatment service which I direct in Winnipeg, ON is launching a fundraising campaign. My favorite other Lisa Cowan is a version of me who owns a preeminent collection of Star Wars figurines.

In 2013 I found myself in this crazy situation where my email got attached to Roxanne Cowan’s match.com profile (maybe Lisa was her real name, or her middle name?). I was somehow getting the notes from men responding to her - and I could not figure out how to get the messages to her. I spent quite a bit of time worrying that she would think no-one was swiping on her. And I went down the rabbit hole looking for Roxanne. I tried to figure out how to ‘wink back’ at brute549 so that he would know Roxanne was also interested in him. In the end, I found an article about Roxanne getting arrested. Her mugshot looked like she was shorter than she had indicated on her dating profile.

I never was able to find Roxanne Cowan, and eventually match.com separated her from my email. I did figure out that the doctor in California was actually Lisa C. Owan, and now I can send her the patient records.

With the stretch of time I have before me this summer, I could organize a reunion of my tocayas (the spanish word for namesakes). I can envision all of us Lisas at a picnic table under the trees near the Christian day care center, or next to the parking lot of the ophthalmologist's office. I could stuff goody bags with Jabba the Hut dolls, and bring some short eligible bachelors to set up with Roxanne. We could commiserate over how the name ‘Lisa’ doesn't really rhyme with anything, or compare notes about how we pronounce it backwards. We are not actually family, of course, but I feel some kinship with them all. I appreciate the glimpses into their lives through the mis-fired emails. It’s fun to think about.

Once that imaginary picnic is done, I am looking around at all this time and space, and I am both delighted and daunted by the prospect.

When my dad told me to do what the spirit say do, he was not talking about the Holy Spirit's voice and direction, although I think he was suggesting that we should follow our (lower case) higher spirit's call to justice, freedom, and equality. But it was also a tired parent’s response to his kids asking him questions to which there were no real answers. So when I look ahead, and ask myself how I should organize this next part of my life - what are the ways I can meet the moment, repair the world, use my time and energy and also have some fun - he would not know the exact answer. Just as I don't. Just as the person sitting across the subway bench does not know, nor does Roxanne or Dr. Cowan.

So I am going to try sitting quietly for a while, turning off the podcast, and listening for the spirits. I’ll let you know what I hear….

LPC

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P.P.S. And in the meantime, I am going to enjoy the beauty around me, and in Maria’s painting.