28 Tuesday Aug 2012
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This is a story I recently wrote in my Dream-Speak blog. It came about from a dream and a process called soul retrieval. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed the journey of re-collecting myself and writing the words. My memory on some of the events below might be a little blurred, but memory is a tricky thing. Overall, we remember things in a way that best serves us and much like dreaming, the best and most important memories bubble to the surface to grab our attention. They have something important to say.
Dream Journaling / Soul Retrieval August 27, 2012
I remember the summer day in 1980 after the orange moving truck left our driveway. There was a breeze coming in my Mother’s bedroom window and I walked in and out of the curtain pretending to be in an elevator. It is uncanny that she had curtains up so soon, but it could have been days later. My memory serves it up as hours.
I walked inside the curtain, “How long? How long has it been since the moving truck left?”
“Maybe three hours,” she said. My memory paints her making her bed.
A bigger breeze and another trip up and down the elevator. “How long now?” I asked.
“Maybe thirty minutes since you asked last.”
I remember going on like this for what seemed like forever. There was something inside that curtain, the way it kept moving and inviting me in.
After my short first summer in Georgia I went into third grade where I learned that Krypton was not a real planet. Where I learned cursive handwriting, the freedom of moving my hand across a page.
In third grade we learned as a class that we were all lectured if one person treated another student badly. And if we had a personal squabble with another student we had to go out in the hall together to discuss it. Alas, nothing was resolved. We each learned hard lessons of backing down or getting our way. I did not get my stolen pencil back on my excursion into the hall. I was too afraid of Jamie’s dandruff and oily skin. The way white spray shot out of the corners of his mouth when he talked. I let him have my pencil, a pencil that belonged in a set that I carried with me all the way from Ohio.
In the third grade I learned to hate field day and I believe my Mother did too. She once volunteered to come to the school and help out with one of the events and witnessed one of the teachers losing her temper at a group of students. We had crossed over a line, a boundary line during one of the games. I was daydreaming and I was the last one to move out of the way. My Mother watched as this teacher moved me to tears of embarrassment.
By fifth grade when I asked to stay home during field day my Mother consented. Eventually, I dropped out of soccer. They played the game differently in Ohio.
Today there is a breeze stirring in the air. A breeze from a hurricane moving across the gulf coast. I’ll wish everyone elevators so they can ride away.
I wanted a picture that day of the orange moving truck because on my last field day in second grade our team color was orange.
“The truck is orange just like our field day team shirts.” I noticed things even back then.
In fifth grade I was pulled out of class by a strange lady. We sat at a conference table where she asked me questions and I got to draw pictures of my life. One day she asked me, “What was it like in Ohio? What was different about it compared to your home in Georgia?”
I didn’t really know what to say. I looked out the window at the parched brown grass and answered, “The grass was greener there.”
They diagnosed me as depressed. A little girl who missed her home.
All I really needed was the wind and an elevator made of gauzy linen on a summer day. All I needed was for someone to step inside with me to go for a ride. Where I came from I had friends who would do this, but here I was expected to be smart. I would be expected to know that Krypton was not a real planet.
When you are eight moving trucks bring your toys, your mother’s curtains, your sister’s books and so many things…but they take your memories far away. An hour, thirty more minutes, three more hours until finally you stop asking. Until finally you stop remembering and start forgetting.
When I am working with soul retrieval I get to go back and gather my pieces, my bones, my raindrops. At first I thought there was some great message that I needed to take to myself, but what would I have been mature enough to hear?
There is no great lesson we need to take back. It is merely a stepping in. We walk into the curtains of our childhood just to be there and we stay there forever. Soul retrieval is a whispering of things like, ‘Have faith you will make it…’ It is a soft hand on your cheek.
And as I have found it is not always about the bad memories or the things we forget. It is also about the projections of the good. Sometimes the good memories are our only doorways into what we need for healing.
The practice of soul retrieval is like an entryway or a threshold…the gauzy summer winds carried in from some other time or place we know nothing about.
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