The universe remembers.
So much of our disappointments are the result not being remembered – by a friend, a lover, a time. We wonder if (perhaps) we were alone in that place, in that ache.
But the universe remembers. It remembers the prayer, the writing down of every dream. It remembers the rhythm of your heart, for it is a shared beat.
Lately, I’ve been overwhelmed with my schedule. Teaching is so important to me, and yet, on more than one occasion, I’ve wondered about direction, resources, and a balancing of passion, desire, and grass too high.
But I wasn’t doing a lot with my worry, other than speaking aloud in my car, on the porch, and in the dark. It’s been almost four years since the non-profit I was working with lost their grant, and three since they stopped making copies, following-up, caring. The class continued because it mattered to me, and I was/am convinced it matters to my students (even if just one). Otherwise, it’s an extra 200 miles a month on my car. A proposed change to one Saturday a month had been accepted by the Director of the outreach facility, but I can’t help but feel for those who will miss the session due to their own recovery schedule. I even feel guilty for thinking that reaching some of them is better than none.
I felt selfish.
Last week, I updated my Linked-in profile and joined an HR group for purposes of sharing ideas on leadership, policy and emotional intelligence studies. That was Monday.
On Tuesday, I received an email from an organization with a message that my posts had been insightful, and further, that a volunteer opportunity had been identified that I might be interested in.
My immediate thought was to ignore it since I was already filled with angst over my schedule. And yet, the name of the organization grabbed me. The email came from a group by the name of Catchafire.
Names are my undoing. The paint in my bedroom will forever be the same for no other reason. It’s a soft grey – woodsmoke. I couldn’t delete and so I replied, ‘tell me more’.
Catchafire is a ‘match-maker service’ of sorts, hooking up volunteers with non-profit organizations.
The opportunity is for a storyteller.
Of course, I was interested and on Thursday, I spoke with the president of the non-profit. In the meantime, they had a few questions. At the time, I wondered if maybe I should take more time with my answers. But ultimately, our answers are our answers. How much time did I need to tell how I feel about story?
The founder of this non-profit is in her nineties. Though she participates (still) with various conventions, etc., her endurance suffers, even as a new younger audience emerges, thirsty for her story. It is a pressing concern for the organization. And there, my job – to tell. From audio interviews, videos, and phone calls, I will do my best to capture the history of this amazing woman.
This doesn’t change the ache I feel for my students, but it gives me a new love which buffers the longing a bit. With time to pause, reflect, and regroup, it is a much needed breath in which to decide where I bloom next. In the slower pace, I can formulate a plan, apply for funding, and reach out to other organizations with similar passions. For certain, I won’t forget.
Which reminds me….
The universe calls (the universe listens).
. . .
of moments so fragile
they’re lost to the rhyme
as birds on the line
we left long ago
where they whisper
of heaven –
above and below
. . .