A Thousand Different Women

I have been a thousand different women. Some I slipped into resembling Dorothy, from the Wizard of Oz’s ruby slippers made just for me. While others felt more like an itchy hair shirt, a snake skin, unyielding, tight, constricting that was begging to be shed. There were even some, when honestly, I was handed must have been sent to an incorrect address. Forgetting that I might have been able to return immediately to the sender with an address unknown.

Endless loving compassion I possess for all these precious souls who came in to play their vital roles. Inhabiting my being fully, until they had taken me as far as they could. I have never been in control of the time line, and chronological age was not impactful. Curious if any of my selves experienced a wistful parting? Perhaps others relieved and ready to step aside? Most likely a little of each, a swirl, a blending, never any distinct crisp lines encapsulating me.

Upon entering into this world I was happiest as a child of nature. Befriending ALL of it, my rock garden, keeping the bird bath in the rose garden filled with water. Climbing trees, and telling them my endless secrets as they were the best listeners. My enduring  love of animals, the squirrels who nested in the hollows of the oak and elm trees, imitating bird song, most especially the scarlet cardinals. When I received my first puppy, a beagle, we named, Chelsea, that I had wished and longed for as I blew out the candles on my birthday cake. A dream come true for me.

I envision a kinetic kaleidoscope when I’m in my teen years. Desiring to belong, keeping up with a very rigorous academic schedule, some treasured girlfriends, and my first love at age fifteen. Each moving a tic, and a different shape and color emerged. Life changing drastically at age sixteen with my parent’s divorce. Receiving an education about relationships, and the harsh realization that change is a constant, even the ones we fear and hope will not choose our doors to knock upon.

My twenty and thirty year old selves inhabited a woman trying to juggle marriage, children, and a teaching career. I remember her as fun loving, adoring weekends with her family, relishing camping trips, and often weary and tired to the bone. Frequently pushing herself far too hard.  Attempting to keep everything in the air from plummeting to the ground which was an impossible expectation.

With the advent of the loss of my precious brother in my early forties, my search for meaning, something beyond what I could tangibly see and explain was ignited. I held endless questions, and began reading various texts from all different faith backgrounds. Filling in the gaps was my time spent with my former priest and dear friend, Shannon, in spiritual direction. In my late forties my teacher self in the classroom ended, and I began my pastoral care/chaplaincy training. This was a critical and pivotal moment in time. Recognizing that I would have faced a more difficult path, when Douglas died, if I had still been in the classroom, and not enfolded by my chaplain community.

My fifty and sixty year old selves were catapulted into grief, loss, and a new set of softer eyes, both for myself and for others. She became more comfortable living within mystery and paradox. An often white knuckled grasping was loosening, and oh, what a difference that has and continues to be. The striving memo shredded and taken out with the trash.

Currently, I am treading lightly and gently into my seventies. Too early to note, yet carrying with me the thousand women I have been. I am blessing each of them and allowing them to be. For they are the bones of the temple I am inhabiting now.