The Voices We Let In
#FromTheArchives
I was responding to several text messages that I woke up to from friends (love that). A lot of missing you, photos, musings, etc. Beautiful messages. š„° One of my friends got a novel back in response to her two text messages, and for that, my apologies. š«£ I opened herās first and she got my first thoughts of the day which were rooted in guilt because I woke up feeling guilty.
The first two legs of this #sabbatical made āsense,ā but this leg makes zero sense. I canāt describe it as anything other than selfish, and so I am stuck in my head trying to justify the next 30 days.
I have some really broken pieces in me around time off. Some of it I can blame on others, sure, but ultimately it is my problem rooted in something deeper. There is something in me that says, āHeather you donāt deserve to be free in beauty. You are āresponsibleā and therefore must be āaccessibleā at all times. āTo not be, is irresponsible and selfish. How dare you. I am so disappointed in you.ā These words have a distinct and individualized voice.
People hurt us. They hurt us with their words. Their judgements. Their condemnation. Hell, even with their silence.
One of my weaknesses has been letting the wrong voices into my life, yoking to them, and then being unable to free myself.
What I am learning, uncomfortably so, is that there is physical freedom and there is mental freedom. The latter is MUCH harder to achieve.
When you are alone. In the quiet. Left with your own mind. That is when you one hundred percent realize that you are not yet truly free.
I donāt know if this is for anyone other than myself, but I can tell you my location matters not - I could be anywhere in the world, including my Sisā living room, and it would not matter - the problem is between my ears.
Well, sh*t.
In the heart of Oslo, where I am lucky to be staying, there are all of these beautiful modern buildings with a natural color scheme. Breathtaking truly. Yetā¦right dab smack in the middle of them all is an equally tall building, classic (aka old) Norwegian architecture, and it is a soft, baby doll pink. I donāt know how to make this make sense, but my heart is drawn to the vibe of that building in this viewā¦this place.
Friends, this is what letting go looks like too. š„“
Authorās Note: I wrote this on August 4, 2023, while living in Norway, on the final leg of my sabbatical. It was five weeks/a month in a country where I went alone and not knowing a single soul. I arrived with nothing but my luggage and without anything locked in but a one bedroom furnished apartment I booked online for the month. I literally googled āWhat currency do they use in Norway?ā from the plane on my second leg from Amsterdam to Oslo. After having spent the first three months of my sabbatical teaching and being around/with people I had known for (in some cases) thirty years, I was suddenly - and without fanfare - all alone. With. My. Thoughts. Hashtag bless. I experienced so much in those weeks all alone wrestling through the rumblings in my head, sleeping deeply and for hours and hours after years of fitful sleep, healingā¦this was written a mere couple of days after I arrived. The lessons from that season still resonate today, two years later.
Also, āhomeā can be a person even more than a place. Whatever it is for you, when you find it, fight for it. Donāt let go. If for no other reason then not everyone finds their āhomeā in their lifetime.
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OH, Heather, I feel you. And I'll tell you that I am 100% certain you would not switch fates with me, or most people. I'm having a good moment, but the hard ones are brutal. Too brutal to go public with, for me. I am trying to be my own home. Even as a married person, and we have been told in my tradition that we were supposed to think of our mate as our heart's solid solace, I have found that I am my own safest place. And I always have been. Cheers to that. Sending love, and please keep writing.