A strange sort of shift has taken place in my awareness around my new name. A month ago I received an email from a woman who runs a community center where I used to teach infant development classes. Have I told you I used to work with infants? Hmm...so much you probably don't know about me. Not sure it matters. I digress.
It's been almost three years since I stepped away from my own business doing the infant development thing. So, this woman contacts me and asks if I'll come and teach a few workshops for her parents and facilitators. I agree to do the workshops, wondering if my brain still remembers infanty-type stuff. I'll find out next week. Anyhow, it struck me that my business was built on my given name, the one I left behind when I adopted Anya at my naming ceremony last September. This woman only knows me by that name. And since it is still my legal name, the cheque she will inevitably write me for my workshop teaching services will be to that name. So, I had some decisions to make.
I sat with it for awhile. I breathed with it. And then I laughed. A lot. I realized what people call me doesn't matter so much. I know who I am (most of the time anyhow) and it's simpler just to allow people to call me by the name that fits the context. For business, I'm legally still my given name. My friends call me Anya. It's all good.
It's funny that most of the time when I have conversations with myself, I speak to someone named Anya. And yet, there are certain contexts where my self-talk is directed to my given name. I'm both. And I'm neither.
The most intriguing conversation though takes place in the mirror with the woman I see looking back. She has no name. She's just pure energy sitting quietly behind eyes of blue.
Edited February 26 to add: This week, I had someone write a cheque to Anya and deposited it in my bank account. The bank doesn't seem to care one way or the other, so Anya it is. For life, for business, for all of it. I am Anya. Hear me roar.