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.
Soul Stories: When the Dust Settles
When the dust settles…
My heart will be released from this feeling that every
decision about where I go or what I need to do in life will not be contingent
on school schedules and deployments. I
can take a yoga class. And actually
arrive on time. And stay until the
end. I can sing alleluia and amen. It is finished. I have kept the faith. I was consistent through to the end. I can figure out why it is I still teach
preschoolers and watch the clock and hold my tongue. Where are the interesting people at? Why can’t I release myself from this cage of
monotony. My brain feels frazzled. I can only handle time in three hour
allotments. When I am released, I will break
out with abandon like pushing through the tape at the finish line. But for now I just show up and do the same
thing again. And again. And again,
When the dust settles, I wonder what I will think
about these last five years. The
commitment I made to explore this different type of work. Heart centered. Soul filling and at the same time soul
depleting.
I think about my eight year old self and this is not
who I remember. I remember a girl who
wanted to be an attorney at 25. Because
attorney equated to asking tough questions and solving problems and being on
the edge of my mental capabilities. I am
on the edge but it is emotional and it’s like… serving time.