Soul Stories: Long Afterward I Came up on it Again
Long Afterward, I Came Up
on It Again…
The trees cascade by on
the winding road as we head back home.
Its been a long luxurious day of talking, hiking and skipping rocks with
a pizza lunch thrown in the middle.
25 years ago, I would
have considered myself an avid hiker. I
made my way to the mountains almost every weekend. The mountains felt like a spiritual
retreat. Though I couldn’t tell you what
I needed to retreat from back then.
Mostly it was about fresh air and exercise. I just barely committed to my relationship
with God and it felt pure. Young.
Limitless.
I liked my job as a
retail manager. I was mom to a sweet
little boy and though his dad and I were no longer together, we were amicable
with each other.
But at some point, I
stopped hiking. It began when I got
tangled up with someone who I let take me away from myself. Someone who I gave up my peace for. Hindsight is 20/20. I literally carved something sacred out of my
life to entertain something detrimental.
And I don’t know why. Except
maybe because I thought I was trying to form a life that I was told was
supposed to be the ideal. But honestly,
I really was already living an incredible life.
The hike today was
different from those hikes before. Because
so many experiences are bookended in between.
My heart needed to get back to the mountains. It was different to be in the mountains
today. There was more intention to
it. A recognition of what I had lost. Or should I say carelessly threw away. There is more power this time. The power is defined as rest.
Soul Stories: Write about Small Change
Write about small change.
Life does not seem to fall together in a straight
line. It’s more like chess. Or what I know about chess. Because I don’t know how to play chess. But I think its about strategy. And
Luck. Its sometimes looking like you are
losing and then suddenly seeing a path open in front if you. It’s struggling so long that you forget to
even think about when the struggle is going to end and then realizing you are
past it. It’s losing someone or
something and finding out something about yourself. Its seeing that the win doesn’t even matter
because of what you had to lose to get the win.
I used to think that life was clean. And clear.
Now I know that it is messy and complicated. And has no map. That sometimes multiple choices are equally
good. That there is such a thing as a
‘no win’ situation. That sometimes you
think something it over and then slowly it revives itself. That love does come back. That you really can let go. That you will live and not die. And that some scars that you think will never
heal somehow do. With enough time. And patience.
And release. And quiet.
Soul Stories: Write about the Making of Beds
Write about the making of beds.
Every morning without fail my bed was made. It was a rule in my house. You did not leave your room until your bed
was made. I did not question the
rule. I just made my bed every
morning. When I grew up and moved away
and lived in my own space, I made my bed every morning. I like how it felt to start my day that
way. And intention for the day. A prayer.
Smoothing the sheets, fluffing the pillow, turning down the
comforter. Give us this day our daily
bread. Give me this day what I
need. What did I need?
Stability. Comfort. Peace.
I don’t make my bed much anymore, except sheet washing
days. I married a man who stays in bed.
Longer than I do. Always. So, he makes
the bed. Every day. Without fail.
We have never had a conversation about this. I don’t know what the rule was in his house
as a kid. It was a house full of boys,
so I could assume they had no such rule, but his dad was in the military so
maybe they did have that rule. My dad
was in the military too.
My husband has been in the military for over 20 years
so perhaps that is why he make the bed.
He is a creature of habit and a lot of the ways he handles things are
inspired by those times when he has to be away for months at a time on
deployments. Like the way he folds his
socks or the way he packs for a trip.
Maybe he makes the bed to be helpful.
I know there is something about seeing the bed made
that gives me comfort. Makes me feel
loved somehow. That even in the hardest
seasons of our lives, he makes the bed.
And somehow that act nudges me to see love in it.
This is where I went wrong.
I admire you so much that you look for the jobs that
interest you. I said this to my daughter
in law one time and I truly meant these words.
She worked as a baker’s assistant because she loved baking. She worked at the kennels because she loved
animals. I thought this was so
sweet. A bit naive. Dare I say lucky, I mean I haven’t really
worked at jobs that I hated. Other than
a collections agent but it was kind of a bait and switch situation and I needed
the money, so I stuck it out for 119 days.
Yes, I counted the days. In 10-minute breaks and 30-minute lunch
breaks.
Right now, I am taking classes to become a
paralegal. It feels a bit scandalous.
And indulgent. 50 years old and learning
yet another skill. I have a certification as a life coach, a Montessori teacher
and degrees in business and theology. Yes,
I like to learn but not this much and certainly not with this price tag.
I have looked at this paralegal certification a few
times. I am interested in law. I have been all my life. I don’t remember much about my childhood, but
I remember when I was 8 years old I had one of those little fortune teller
paper games. And I remember one day
choosing the perfect life: 25 years old, driving a jeep, a lawyer in Colorado,
married with 2 kids.
I started the paralegal certification about 2 weeks
ago now. But I am kind of keeping it a
secret. Again, with school, Robin? But the thing is as I am learning all the
legal terminology, it all feels so familiar to me. And memories are starting to come back to me. Like one of my first jobs was at a law firm
as a file clerk. And I got promoted to
legal bookkeeper. But then I got
pregnant with my first child and I needed to make more money. So, I waited,
hoping for a raise. 18 months in and
still no raise. The office manager said
there was a freeze on wages. So, I
started to look for another job. And I
became practical. I now have been
trained in accounting. So, I started
doing accounting jobs. Then I was promoted to supervisor. So, I started taking
on roles as managers.
I got a glimpse of my path again about 20 years
later. While I was at the collections
job, I had plenty of time to think. So,
I looked on Craig’s list and found a job for a law assistant. I applied all
starry eyed and felt the winds of change.
Until the manager reconfigured the position to tax assistant instead of
the promised role of legal assistant.
And then my oldest suddenly got married.
And then my dad suddenly died.
And I was kind of paralyzed. So,
I quit that job and began hobbling something new together. Art. Teaching.
Another wrong turn? Who’s to say.
I don’t know what this next step will look like. I am not assuming the answer is paralegal
because the world is such a different place and this step can mean so many
things. But that talk I had with my daughter in law rings in my head that there
is nothing wrong with doing something you like to do.
Soul Stories: It was Sunday, the time is Happened
It was Sunday, the time is happened…
The cupcakes needed to be made. What did I need from the pantry? Flour, sugar, butter, yes for sure. Cupcakes on a Sunday. For no reason. Or. For so many reasons. To celebrate an awakening. An invitation to do more that just what is
needed. To be more extraordinary in the
ordinary. Cupcakes seems to me to be
just the right amount of cake.
I never let myself have cake. Like EVER.
There is so much guilt tied to it.
I remember eating a piece of cake when I was younger and my mom saying,
“you are going to need to run around the block a few times to get it off.” How old was I? I lived in the house on
Harned. In Detroit. So younger than 12 or 13 I think. The same age that Josey is now. I noticed the other day that Josey has a body
identical to mine. And she is in no way
fat. And this is the body my mom was
talking to.
Soul Stories: This is what you see by Starlight
This is what you can see by starlight
The cares of the day must flee when night falls. You put on your armor to take on all that the
day will hold. The things that came into
your world unexpectedly that made you feel remembered. Or forgotten. Where does your help come from?
You had every intention to do right, to say the right
thing. To let the thing go. But it takes
two and you forget that sometimes. You
realize that though you armor up with tools that help you to fight the battles
of the day, you also have this soft and open heart that betrays you. Because no matter how much you try to respond
in kind to the harshness that comes at you unprovoked, this stupid heart wants
to think that her intentions are good, or he must not understand how what he is
doing affects so many. Hour by hour you
feel the worship, the prayer, the affirmation deposits you placed on this day
being withdrawn from.
You raise your eyes up to…
Where does your help come from…?
But when night falls, you whisper to the things of
this day, “HUSH”
You get quiet and you let the darkness envelop you.
You forgive others and you forgive yourself.
Because in the starlight you see that while your circumstances
are meant to shape you, they do not define you.
IN the starlight, you are
reminded to “HUSH” before the only one who DOES define you. Soul Stories: Write about a Letter
Write about a Letter
I have a hard time keeping up with bookmarks. I gather 2 or 3 from the check out counter of
a bookstore or at the library because I know that I literally will not be able
to find them in a day or two. So, what I
have taken to doing is finding random tidbits of papers laying around without a
home.
I am sitting on a bench near a pond and I have 2 books
with me, neither of them has an ‘official’ slim rectangle laminated place
holder. One has a flyer from a
production of Mary Poppins that my daughter was in. It’s fun to look at the flyer. It reminds me of the performance and how
amazing she was in the rendition of Michael Banks.
The other book is place marked by a letter a little
larger than a postcard. On one side it
is beautifully decorated with handcrafted paper and a lovely magenta and ivory
poppy. On the other side is a collection
of words transcribed to a mother by her 4-year-old son, my former student. It is a thank you letter. I read it from time to time but nothing about
the letter really strikes me. In fact, I
don’t really know why I kept it. I have a
tough time reading it because while I understand the gesture – a desire to
teach a student to be grateful for his teacher – I understand that it is the
student that does all the hard work and I am just trained as a Montessori
teacher to watch and invite a child into a deeper understanding of these new
concepts that there for him to explore in the world.
Reading it today, I think about why I liked
teaching. This letter embodies both
reasons. A parent that supports the
process is even more valuable than I imagined.
This support alone makes or breaks the school experience for the
teacher. After 5 years of teaching, I
choose to step out of the Russian Roulette of teaching.
I will come across this letter many times in the next
few months. It happens to be placed
serendipitously inside a book that I am gathering information from this
year. This letter serves as a marker of
courage when I need it to take the next steps to a new undiscovered path.
Soul Stories: It's Who You Met at the Party
Photo by Simson Petrol on Unsplash
It’s who you met at the party…
The one person that I didn’t want to see at the party
is here. You shadow me and everywhere I
turn you are at my heels. If I get a
business idea, you have a similar idea and excel at it. If I decided to redesign my aesthetic, you
know someone that tried that and had disastrous results. If I get an opportunity, there are at least
two or three others that you know who have gotten that type of opportunity and
it was a sham. Then somehow through a
crazy series of introductions – some of which I am aware of but didn’t take
seriously – you are now a member of my family.
Married to a dear family member.
And you as lovely as can be. To
everyone else. And of course, I hear
about what a lovely human being you are capable of being.
And unless I become that person who wishes harm on
someone out of desperate need to not have to engage with you…
So I walk up to you.
And I suddenly become enlightened.
The light I saw in your eyes leaves as I walk into your space. And my soul protects itself behind a cement
door. I can’t let you into my heart. Because no matter how much I try to
understand why you choose not let me into yours. And I can no longer muster up the energy to
keep appearances. So I walk away. And I leave you in your space.
Soul Stories: Out of the Corner of my Eyes
Photo by Brenda Godinez on Unsplash
Out of the Corner of my Eye
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a little girl whose
eyes are filled with wonder. A butterfly
has come into her line of sight, yellow and light and just as pretty as it is
free. Free to move. Free to stop, wait, stay, caught by my vision
by not caught by this girl’s outstretched hands. How peaceful her movements. How carefree.
The sun glistening on its wings.
Kissed by nature. Unhindered by
the thoughts of others. Does the little
girl feel the lightness of this creature?
Or is she just captured by its beauty?
Does her heart soar to the heights she sees the butterfly reach? Or has something touched her life and caused
her to lose that lightness that a young heart should have. Oh, I pray it isn’t so. I pray someone has been in her life watching
over her, taking on the noble task to hold her life in high esteem until she is
ready to be able to take on the cares of this world. From out of the corner of my eye, I can’t discern
what all this girl has been through. But
I can see that for this small moment she joins the butterfly in its delightful
dance. And perhaps in this moment she is
reminded – as I am reminded – that hope is the thing with feathers that perches
on the soul.
Robin Norgren
6/18/18
Soul Stories: Write about a pair of shoes
Write about a pair of shoes
My sister and I met at a local restaurant. She is younger than me and her hopeful
enthusiasm for life mounts me like a dominant rabbit. I think I am a hopeful girl. People tell me I am a hopeful girl. But I say if you think I am hopeful, you
should meet my sister. I actually use
that phrase a lot: If you think I’m _______, you should meet my sister. There has always been this strange
competition between us, so much so that I could never seem to sort out my
identity without somehow using their lives as a gauge. I have two sisters. They are beautiful. We got assigned roles in our family very
early on. My middle sister is the artist
and the tough girl. My youngest sister
is the artist and the smart one. I am
the writer. I always liked to
write.
Over the years these labels were too confining but
for awhile I submitted to wearing these labels.
I remember a friend kept inviting me to a Zumba class and I was hesitant
to go because of how rhythmic I knew the classes were. When I finally relented and went to a class,
I surprised myself by actually being able to follow the steps and was pretty
good at moving rhythmically. It was the
beginning of my exploration of what other ‘labels’ I cold wear as part of my
identity.
At the restaurant, we talk about the things going on
in our lives. We chose to meet today
because it is her birthday. I look at
her as a big sister should. Proud of the
woman she is and no longer feeling I need to compete with her. I brought her a gift – a pair of shoes. Truth be told it was a pair of shoes I knew
she liked but it was also a pair of shoes I wish I could wear. I tried them on once. They were cream colored with a 2-inch heel,
strappy, complimentary to a dancer’s physique.
I tried them just like I tried on dancing. And while they both were lovely, they weren’t
mine. But at least I felt the invitation
o find out. I offer these shoes to my
sister, wrapped with joy, And love. And peace.
Soul Stories: Write about an Hour of the Day
Write about an hour of the day
The sunbeams sing through the marigold curtains this
morning. I am in a living room at a
cabin and the light of early morning comes to meet me beside my journal and my
cup of coffee. I hear the birds outside
ushering the world into the day’s glory.
In this early morning light, I fully believe all things are
possible. The light reminds me of new
mercies and new beginnings. The rustle
of my still sleepy child laying quietly on the couch next to me add another
layer of the goodness that surrounds me today.
IN this time with these sounds and this light I feel the invincibility
of the human spirit and the Holy Spirit communing together, conspiring on my
behalf, reminding me that all things do work together for my good. This early morning time, these breaths I
take, this bowed will is the fuel that I come for like an undeniable
elixir. It is the only thing that
matters. This space like no other space
in my life is where hope is kept alive.
Soul Stories: Write about High Tide
Write about high tide.
The ticket cost $1500.
But I had to take the trip. I am
not used to being there for someone. The
dynamics of family are sometimes lost on me.
Both of my parents were fiercely independent people. They needed no one. It’s kind of surprising that at some point
they needed to lean on each other. Or
perhaps they simply decided. Like a
social experiment. But then they went
through a literal war together.
Vietnam. My dad did 2 tours. Volunteered for the second tour. My mother cared for the home and 4 children. I am the oldest of those children. So, I remember the most. And it was to my recollection, mostly high
tide. Unemployment, PTSD, arguments, isolation.
Bad to worse. Separation turned to more
isolation. And what I learned. For a long time.
Until one day I decided I wanted something
different. I wanted to belong to
something. I tried to find my siblings
after years of estrangement. But they
were raised under that same structure.
I felt so much anxiety when I started the
journey. “Contents inside tends to shift
when under pressure.” This is what a
stewardess said to me the first time I took the trip to see my family in
Michigan. She was giving me a waring about the luggage in the overhead bin. I took it in as affirmation of what was going
on inside my body. It was a metaphor
about my first days with family I had not seen in 30 years. But each year I kept at it. And my cousins gracefully met me in this
uncertain space. They had no idea how
much I had to turn away from to turn toward them. 5
years in now. The high is finally coming
in.
Soul Stories: Write about an Island
Photo by Roman Kraft on Unsplash
Write about an Island…
Rabbits. Quiet, jumping, content. Buns out, legs out. And chairs.
Lots of cozy chairs. And books. Books about interesting people telling
stories from the heart. About love
won. And love lost. Lessons learned. Coffee or tea. In Reggio inspired surroundings. Reminding us of the lovely bits of
childhood. Nice wood furnishings. And chandeliers made from random pieces. And the only music heard from time to time
would be produced by joy. Or peace. Or quiet. Lovely quiet. There’s a loft for those who want to sit and
talk quietly or read a stack of books by E. B. White or Kate Dicamillo. Over to my right is a craft table filled with
tissue paper and beads and noodles painted by children and yarn to make pom
poms. And air dry clay.
The weary would know about this island. And those who once gave their souls to
something bigger than themselves that were tossed aside as if their
contributions and sacrifices didn’t matter.
Those who forgot how to cry would find solace there. Those who laugh to keep from crying would
feel lifted and supported here. And they
would tell others that needed it about this island. That there is a place where your comrades
meet. Where you can feel the hope
kindling like logs in a fireplace. A place
where your hallelujah will return.