Retro Manifestation

 

I had just graduated from high school when I agreed to attend a young adult function at our church. My family had been inactive for years, but the opportunity to expand my social circle arose as I was contemplating my future as a grown up. Get a job, my own apartment, eventually a car (I had yet to get my driver’s license), and start contributing to society. Oh—and find a mate. A husband for sure, but I’d be happy with a steady boyfriend. Or even a first date. I’d had boy friends in school, but never a boyfriend. I guess I’d had other priorities ... or the boys had. In any case, once I was free of the Class of ’79, the field widened considerably.

It sounds appallingly old-fashioned, but I clearly remember thinking the invitation, extended by a missionary couple who was hosting the group, might be the gateway to finding Mr Right. So I accepted.

He wasn’t there that week, or the next week, or the week after that. I attended a bunch of those gatherings, meeting people my own age but no one who asked me out. Even after I was eventually baptized, the fabled future husband did not appear. I was neither impressed by nor impressive to the slender field of potential patriarchs for a family of my own, though I did have a blast on the social scene in general. At least I can say I had as much fun in my twenties as other girls had in theirs, only without the bars, clubs, discos and alcoholic accelerants. Best of all, I met my Ter. Inseparable for more than a year before my dad suggested we get our own place, what began as a temporary arrangement is still going strong almost forty years later.

Only now do I see the magical manifestation of my original intention. It’s taken me almost forty years to realize that when I accepted the invitation to that young adult gathering, I was going to meet my life partner. I simply lacked the imagination to envision something—someone—who would punt the standard from the park. In fact, who I got was so marvellously unexpected that I am in a perpetual state of gratitude for my incredible good fortune. This lifetime relationship has worked out far better than I had anticipated, and probably better than I deserve.

I like to think that Ter feels similarly about me, though the one thing I am sure of is that, in 1980, the Universe read my intention to find my soulmate ... and smiled.

Soul Mates

Many years ago, I took one of those silly quizzes that asked me to name five people who were important to me. They had to be people I knew, i.e., no rock stars or favourite authors. I didn’t want to think too much, as overthinking can mess with the results, so I followed my instinct and wrote down five names.

Ter was one of them.

The next task was to assign a colour to each name. Again, without thinking too much, I pictured each person and let the colour assign itself.

Ter’s was white.

In the end, the colour was said to determine what role each person played in my life. One of them was an outright WTF? and I don’t remember the other three—but I have always remembered Ter’s because white meant “soul mate”.

Well, duh. If course she was—and is, and always will be. She and I are irrevocably linked and likely have been so since before The Big Bang. We will likely be so into however many futures are left to us, until we say “enough already!” and move onto our next gigs as technicians, planners or spirit guides—whatever other employment opportunities exist in the Great Beyond.

Even then, we’ll always be friends. Sisters. Soul sisters and soul mates. I can’t imagine any life without her, and I’m fine with that. I’ve never been so fine about anything, in fact. She is simply as vital to my survival as air, though I won’t take her for granted until I can’t breathe anymore. Nope, she’s a part of me and I’m a part of her and there you go.

We have this limiting misconception that a soul mate must be the one you marry. I could very well be wrong, but I only know one couple where that seems to be true. I know of many more folks who thought they’d married their soul mate, then met someone else and immediately gone, oops. Serial weddings ensue as romantic misconception reigns, but here’s the kick: A soul mate can be anything in one’s life—not necessarily a spouse, but a friend, a sibling, a co-worker, a neighbour, a poet (*waves at Beanie*), a healer or a hairdresser or a barista. It can even be—get this—your arch nemesis. Yes, Virginia, your worst enemy may very well be your soul mate. After all, lessons are to be learned, and who better to teach them than a soul who has known yours from the dawn of Time?

There is a theory that suggests we exist in “soul groups”. This is especially plausible if you believe in reincarnation or parallel lives, or any of the other trippy hippy alternatives I’ve encountered during the past few years. Everyone in this group can be considered a soul mate. This explains why I feel more connected to a select few than I do for the entire cast of characters I will meet in this life. These are the people with whom I have solid, enduring (sometimes frustrating) relationships, but the term “soul mate” also includes the handful of power people who have crossed my path during their own journeys; those individuals who drop in to make a difference ranging from improving my day to testing my boundaries to changing the course of my entire life.

It took me twenty years to find my Ter. I wasn’t without soul mates before then, but those who served their purpose in my childhood and teenage years had moved on to make room for her. She got into the car one fateful evening, we started talking, and we haven’t stopped since.

Soul sisters. Soul mates. Forever. What a wonderful thought!

With love,

Oceans of Words

Nicole sent me this print for Christmas, seeing in it the nature of our relationship maintained over time and distance by an endless conversation in writing. At one time, we wrote letters, lengthy missives begun in tidy script and trailing into a scrawl once cramp had set in. These days the letters are less frequent, replaced by card tag and spontaneous emails in the middle of a workday, but there is always a heart leap when I see her name in my inbox or her handwriting in the daily post.

I have, on occasion, heard her voice. She recorded A Charlie Brown Christmas for Ter and me a couple of years ago, so I need only open the book to hear her east coast drawl. I don’t hear it in her writing, though; as with all things subjective, I hear her via my innate universal translator, which sounds suspiciously like me. And, when you account for local vernacular, sounds hilariously discordant at times.

Nope, for the most part, our friendship is a written one, and while I would dearly love to close down a teahouse with her (she might prefer a bar with beer and a rockin’ house band), the value of her friendship is not one whit diminished by the vast space between us.

Is she a soul mate? Maybe. A soul sister, certainly, and likely someone I have known in another time and another place. For whatever reason, we have been separated this time out, yet we managed to find each other despite our differing paths, and perhaps we benefit more from our present circumstance than we would if we resided in the same town. We are each spared proximity to the other’s drama, for one thing, which enables clarity when offering support. And that support comes in writing, to be read and reread as required, wisdom saved for a rainy day or anecdotes to amuse when nothing else is funny.

Matted and framed, this print hangs above my writing desk, a tangible connection to my most perceptive soul sister and a reminder of the conversation begun all those years ago. I’ll sign this one off as Nic herself is wont to sign …

In propinquity,

Anniversaries

where the adventure began - July 1, 1984

Ter and I moved into our current abode on August 1, so our residential fiscal year ends on July 31. That means our final rent cheque for the 13/14 cycle will be cashed after today’s stat holiday. I wouldn’t mention it except it so happens that our very first mutual rent cheque was cashed on the same day thirty years ago.

Thirty years.

Yep, Ter and I became roommates on July 1, 1984. Who could have predicted that we’d still be together three decades after we signed the lease on suite 408 at the Landmark building in Sidney-by-the-Sea?

Not us. The plan—in my mind, anyway—had been to share expenses until one of us (probably Ter, who was blonde and beautiful and so freaking pulled together) found Mr. Right. The universe obviously had other ideas, since that paragon of priesthood perfection never materialized, and after all this time, I can honestly say, THANK YOU, UNIVERSE!!!

I should also thank my father, because it was his idea. Faced with the terror of acquiring another twentysomething daughter when the one he had was showing no sign of leaving the nest, he quietly suggested to me that, “Perhaps you two should think of getting an apartment together.”

Well, duh. Therein lies the danger of parents making their home too comfortable for the children—I was twenty-two, had a fulltime government job, and no inclination at all to get my own place. Ter had come back from Edmonton and was living with her folks in their ground floor apartment. She, by comparison, had been on her own since she was seventeen, so when I told her what Dad had said, she was all for it. Thus began “The Ongoing Adventures of Ru and Ter”.

Her childhood experience was in direct contrast to mine, so we each brought unique neuroses and phobias to the party. As we have grown together into adulthood, we’ve sorted through our mutual crap and found our singular magic. We have helped each other to become who we truly are. We’re not done yet, either. There is so much more growing and nurturing and sharing to accomplish, feats that couldn’t be achieved by either of us in company with anyone else. And when we operate as a team? Don’t ask questions, just get out of our way.

A popular (and horribly romantic) misconception is that a girl will marry her soul mate. This is not always so. In fact, it may be less frequently so. Soul mates come in many forms. We travel through time together and take on different roles in each phase of our progress. Whatever she has been and whatever she will be, this time out, Ter is my sistah. My teacher. My yardstick. My cool inspector. My house elf. My guru. My heavy-lifter. My bodyguard. My reality check. She says I never drive her crazy, so I’m unsure how she perceives the condition, but when we argue, we argue from ego, never from spirit. The square root of our relationship is love. Pure, positive, unconditional love.

Could either of us have survived the past thirty years with Mr. Right? Or anyone else, for that matter?

Maybe. But it wouldn’t have been nearly as much fun.