Chapter VIII

This is probably getting confusing now, the chapters interspersed with updates from my life and one-off stories from my days. Oh well.

To note: I’m planning an evening gathering in Saratoga in January potentially called What I’ve Learned From Ten Years as a Medium, which doesn’t refer to my size but rather my connectivity with the Spirit realm. Those inspirited as opposed to incarnated. I have to play with the language, everything we use to talk about death, life after death (is that what we’re living now?) spirit, source … ugh, there is no good way. To capitalize or not? Does it matter?

Anyway, January, an evening in the art gallery space at 110 Spring St., Q + A. It’ll be free, limited space, donations, etc, etc. Date to follow soon. Let’s see how it goes.

But, OK, this is Chapter VIII. Don’t you love Roman numerals? I do.

In Chapter Eight I am in elementary school in Saratoga. Which, of course, was one of the many places of my youth that laid the groundwork for my future suffering.

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When I was in fourth grade we had this system for reading and writing. I think it was called SRA. God help us if they’re still using that crap, but basically you could proceed at your own pace. There was a box in the back of the room with laminated cards. I think you read the card then answered the questions, done, go back and get another card. Proceed through some sort of color-coded system.

I worked through the cards so quickly that, well, probably the teacher didn’t know what to do with me so I became a tutor for the kids whose pace was slower. I don’t recall being asked if I wanted to become a tutor; no doubt it had more to do with crowd management than actual skills.

But there I was, thrust into a helping capacity when what I really wanted was harder, meatier, more interesting work. If only there had been a system where you could fly through the time-wasting garbage work then dig into something you really wanted to do, like sit in a cozy corner and read a real book.

Here’s where it gets really weird: I recall at one point that I was allowed to go to the activities room down the hall, which was like a kitchen/workspace combo, and learn how to weave. There was a loom set up in there and a couple of us who had been tutors were sent there to become weavers.

To … prevent burnout? Maybe? Did the teachers think that since we were working double time, doing our own work then harassing (let’s face it, ten year olds have no idea how to actually tutor anyone) our peers into getting their plastic card work completed that we were going to crash?

Was it a reward? Cheaper than hiring an actual teaching assistant?

I didn’t want to become a helper or tutor when I was a kid, I wanted to be left alone with words. But the adult world thrust this fresh new role upon me and there was a lot of ooohing and aaaahhhing and praise and before I knew it I started believing that I was supposed to help people do things they couldn’t do.

Before I even had a chance to speak up, the world turned me into something I didn’t want to be.

I bet this happened to you, too.

I’m sure all the adults thought they were doing something great, but they weren’t. It took me decades to shake the feeling that I had to help everyone I come in contact with who needs help. Which is basically everyone.

It took me forever to learn how to say no.

It is still hard for me to put myself and my desires before other peoples’ needs.

It has taken me a lifetime to understand that I’m here to accomplish things that only I can do because of the unique combination of my history, my biology, my soul and my particular place in this world at this moment in time. For a long, long time I thought I was invisible, that everything everyone else needed and wanted mattered more than anything I cared about or wanted to do or needed. I deliquesced myself into the background so often that I might as well been vapor in the room.

I understand now that the task is to create what I came here to create and then use the lessons and resources generated by that to improve the conditions of the world around me.

And I don’t mean Me First! I don’t mean that at all. Because people are really skittish about that, rightfully so. This is not a Marie Antoinette Let them eat cake kind of thing. It’s trusting that I am here to manifest something important and meaningful, immersing myself in that to the point where I am raising the vibration of my life with the joy it generates, then bringing that joy to the world.

I think the hardest part about adulthood is identifying and shrugging off all the labels and identities that the incompetent (though at times well-meaning) adults loaded us up with when we were kids. You have to really keep an eye on grown-ups because they’ll do that shit. They didn’t get to be a professional baseball player so they force their kid to play Little League even though the kid clearly loves painting. They were chubby as a kid so they keep the snacks on the highest shelves in the kitchen. They didn’t go to Harvard so they start telling everyone their kid is going to Harvard the day they’re born. Look at him! He’s already sucking his thumb! This kid is headed straight to Harvard!

I can just see the writing on my fourth grade report card: Melissa is such a whiz at our reading program that she spends time every day tutoring her classmates!

And then, wham! Melissa is a tutor. A helper. The person we could turn to to save the world. One boring laminated SRA card at a time.

I wish that grown-ups could look at their offspring with wonder and awe and not as a lump of clay that requires molding. If you stand back far enough and watch, kids do really cool things with their own two hands and their rich imagination. I didn’t want to tutor or weave when I was a kid, I wanted to read and write. How come no one in charge paid attention to that?

Well, it turns out the ones we put in charge aren’t always the wisest when it comes to charting the course for other humans.

I have no idea how to weave. Or knit or sew. I could not create any form of material or textile to save you or me. But here I am today, writing this story for you this morning. I hope you like the way I put all the words together.

I forgive you, Mrs. Rosenberg. I’m sure you know better by now.

Photo by Museums Victoria on Unsplash