A Happening of Short Stories

Once upon a time...

When I was in middle school, our acclaimed choir teacher Mr. Strid took a year off. I think it was a stress leave kind of thing, at least that's what the swirling rumours said. He always did seem a bit of a stressed guy. But he was a passionate choir teacher! That in between year, in between Grade 6 and Grade 8, we had a teacher named Mr. Kretz instead. The rumours that swirled about him were that he was a former used car salesman, taking on this temporary choir teacher thing as a novice. 

Thanks to Mr. Kretz I know every word of The Beatles' In My Life--a small group of us sang it for a concert! (Where you at?) Every practice, instead of Mr. Strid's strict choir-style oooohs and eeeeehs and ahhhhhhs, well we sang pop songs instead, soft rocky kind of pop songs by lyrics only, printed on white papers. 80s/90s hit songs like: You're the Inspiration, like Looking Through the Eyes of Love, like oh gosh now that I'm writing this I can't remember, but I often think of them, these pop songs. That's what we did! We sang pop songs all year! We didn't even get to use the real choir room for this, they put us elsewhere. (Is it cause we were only singing pop songs?)

Then, by Grade 8, Mr. Strid was back. Mr. Kretz, with his hair gel and too much cologne, his white collared shirt and slight ponch and unnecessary tie, well he was gone. Mr. Strid was back, I guess less stressed. But he'd still always stop the whole class if someone was talking or not paying attention, and he'd say, "What part of 'no talking' (or whatever else it was that he was perturbed) do you not understand? WHAT PART OF ____________________ DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND?" until eventually everything was silent and everyone in the room was looking at you. You perturberance.

My friend Johanna and I used to really ruffle his feathers by showing up to choir with crazy ridiculous high ponytails on the tops of our heads, and sometimes I'd have my hot pink or hot yellow tights on, and we'd be laughing and giggling, non chalantly trying so hard to draw attention to ourselves but act like we were too cool for it. He hated that. 

Mr. Kretz was softer. All that soft rock.

I wonder what happened to that guy.

Once upon a time...

I bought this huge round rug. You know the kind that doesn't have a backing, you can see the woven-ness of the rug on either side of it. The kids were little, and living in an apartment building with hardwood floors and little kids led to noise complaints. Their little stompy feet and dropping of toys was too much for some neighbours (some neighbours loved it, as a sign of life above! perspective...). So, I desperately searched craigslist for a rug maybe, to dampen the noise. I found an old one owned by an old man in an old apartment. I can't remember why he was getting rid of it, but I do remember that he was the original owner, and it was old, and had maybe been in his family for many years. I put that large round rug under our kitchen table, since so much toy dropping happened there. And then realized why people don't have rugs under their tables when they have kids...the crumbs. But! Less noise for the neighbours.

Fast forward 9 years and the rug was coming apart in several places, seemingly coming untied. Our home's floors had the layered effect--layers of rugs, so as to cover up the few large gaps in this one. Some among us wanted to see more hard wood floors, which seemed a possibility now that we're less stompy (and have lovely neighbours). One among us (me) bought a new piece of furniture that barely fits but provides so much more seating and a whole new look...and the rug seemed clunky and heavy and like just too too much. "Don't get rid of it, Mama", one girl said. "Ohhh, yeah that's kind of sad about the rug," another girl said. "Are you getting rid of that?!" a boy said, incredulously pleased. 

Do I put it in my storage room, where it just becomes a blob to move around every time I go in there? Just in case someday I want to fix it (is that even possible?), or just hug it lovingly for what it gave us all these years? Where will it go if I put it out back by the building's large trash bin?

Maybe someone coming through the alley will take it, and breathe life into it again, and fix it. I hope that's what happened. 

Once upon a time...

I had a recurring dream that was very violent. In the dream, I was trying to kill someone--a male--and this person just would not die. The reasons for the violence were uncertain, and there was no gore. Just, this person would keep looking at me, keep revitalizing themself, and I'd have to keep pouding on them, whacking them, ungoringly chopping them up into tiny pieces, and they'd keep looking at me. 

I had this dream over and over and over and over again, sporadically over many years. I used to theorize over what it was about, but never strongly, because the theory I had didn't really make sense. Felt forced. It's only as I get older that the dream makes more sense to me. 

I wrote a very popular A D D I C T I O N post a few years back. Imagine that post as that dream. Recurring. That thing I'm trying to destroy as the addiction showing up in my life, inserting itself over and over and over again. No matter the consequences. No matter the shame. No matter the pain. No matter the money or the hits and whacks and poundings. It still looks me right in the eyes, from the loved ones around me who struggle so deeply. The bike rides I take through the city, a city desperate with the suffering. 

I know what happens to it...it never dies. 

My dream makes sense now.

Once upon a time...

My girls were just little girls. They were always a twosome, especially to me, even if they are quite distinct from one another. They played with My Little Ponies, loved things like rainbow unicorns, and dressing up in crazy costumes, and colouring colouring colouring, trying on my shoes and carrying my purses around. Their brother came along, and drowned them out. It's a good thing they are two, to stand a chance. They joyed over him, cared for him and his cuteness, until...he wasn't cute enough for the trouble anymore! (When did that happen?) My girls, I used to staycation with them, so we could all get away. It seemed they'd always be That Age. But they weren't, they aren't.

For her grad party, though, one of them wanted to borrow one of my purses. I had just gone through my closet recently, to get rid of things. You know how you do, every so often. "Do I wear this?" "Do I need this?" "This is from another lifetime" "When would I ever use this again?" "I can't believe I used to carry this"..."But wait. These don't take up all that much space. And maybe one of the girls would want to use one someday. After all, I got some of these from others who thought I'd want to use them someday. And I did."

"Mama, do you have a purse I could borrow for grad?"

Good thing I know what happened to those purses. I kept them! 

And instead of just playing dress up with it, she took it out on the town. Like I used to. 

Once upon a time...

I used to feel pulled, and fomo'ed, and like the sands of time were running out and it was a race. There were things I wanted to do! What if I didn't get to? Books to read, movies to watch, better put them on a list, better put them on hold, better Try Harder. Places to go. Lives to lead. Blog posts to write.

That pang.

Maybe it's the wisdom of getting older? But suddenly recently it dawned on me: I won't get to do everything. I can never do everything. No one can ever do everything. Not...someday...not...if I try harder...not...if I'm just a better more together person...not...if I have more money...not...not...no! That's simply impossible. That can't happen. For anyone.

That can't happen.

And that's ok. Live with intention, chill out, go on the staycations, analyze the dreams, let things go, remember the people from the past-look forward to the people in the future-and treasure the people right now. Make--not everything--but somethings, happen. Live with intention. 

(& write the post.)