Soul Tribe

How do you say "I recognize you" in spirit language?

(Image is the view past my feet at the sun setting behind the trees. It is a solitary spot of light. You can also see the rear of Angel, my wonderful 4Runner)

I met a couple from my soul tribe at the KOA in Lynchburg, VA, in a beautiful and long hoped-for moment of serendipity.

The KOA in Lynchburg is lovely, if chaotic. In typical KOA campgrounds there are clear ‘roads’, and cabins and RV spots are organized in a tidy fashion. This KOA layout was like my hair - confusing, naturally spiraling, and tangled. I loved it. My pull-through spot B34, seemed a bit like an afterthought - it sprawled across the front yard of one of the deluxe cabins, and perpendicular to the pull-through side beside it. Definitely an odd layout.

(Image is the KOA campground. I was in that yellow pull-through that is shaped like a backwards ‘C’, close to the top)

When I first arrived, a couple in their 50s were in the cabin with their two young grandsons: they left the next day. The next people to check into that cabin were an older couple on a three-wheel motorcycle; the man was slight, white hair and beard, glasses (think Bradley Whitford in Handmaid’s Tale), the woman was taller, larger, with straight hair that was a uniform grey, glasses, and a walk that indicated severe leg pain. I didn’t see much of them during the day, but early that evening they were sitting outside in front of their fire. I was feeling a little lost and lonely, so I decided to relax and see if I could connect with my guides. I took a quit hit of weed, hoping when the smell inevitably drifted out of my trailer that it wouldn’t bother them, and went out to my chair. I turned it so it was facing the trees and the sunset, and just waited.

It was 7:45, the sun was dipping low behind the trees, in just the right spot that it appeared as a point of light in the forest, like a homing beacon. I watched it for a bit, then gazed up at the canopy, letting my eyes just blur and drift a little.

The word “ASK” appeared in the branches and leaves. This was the third time in recent memory and the second time on this trip that the trees were clearly spelling out a word for me.

Huh, I thought. Ask… what? What am I supposed to be asking about? Am I asking for something - like a wish? Should I be asking for information, like what was up with my love life? And what if this was a trick question? What if I only got to ask one question, and I wasted it asking what I should ask?

Oh yeah, my high lil brain was having a field day. The word ‘ask’ itself is one that comes with some baggage for me. During my 20+ year marriage, Randy would get so annoyed with me when I wouldn’t ask for help with stuff like household chores. I would be frustrated that there were chores that obviously needed doing, and no one else but me would do them. I thought that because he and I were married/partners, I shouldn’t have to ‘make him a list’ or ‘ask’ him to pick up some of the chores. When I did ask, it would get done once and then disappear off his radar. So I was supposed to ask every single time? “Don’t get mad, ask for help,” was his mantra, clearly placing the responsibility and blame on my shoulders for thinking I should not have to ask him to contribute to the housework every single time. It was a source of contention, because, yes, I most often will do stuff myself: it’s the quickest and most efficient way to get it done.

For example, our house was small, especially the kitchen, and I needed the tiny bit of counter space to be kept clear for food prep. The dishes needed tending to twice a day. Every day. When I asked him to do them, I could expect them to get done when he felt like doing them - in the middle of the night, for example. That was not acceptable. So, like many, many couples, my asking or not asking was a source of frustration, and I would wince at the word.

The other version of ‘ask’ I heard wasduring meetings with other parents when my kids were in elementary/middle school. One mom in particular consistently used the word ‘ask’ as a noun. For some reason this really rubbed me the wrong way, possibly because it was coming from one of the revered moms who could do no wrong - but I did not worship her the way the other parents did. When I wanted to start an afterschool D&D club, which Randy would lead, she made sure it never got off the ground. She firmly held the prejudice that D&D was not an ‘appropriate’ kind of thing for these youngsters to participate in. Never mind that the fifth graders talked about episodes of Breaking Bad on field trips - D&D was inappropriate and dangerous. This upset my husband greatly, to the point of tears. He was a first generation D&D player, and had put up with scorn and ridicule and suspicion about it all of his life - and to have a parent at this progressive, liberal school buy into all that Dungeons & Dragons = Doom & Danger bullshit was exquisitely painful for him. Because this mom was on the highest pedestal of volunteer moms, her say was final. Perhaps if someone other than her was saying “We know it’s a big ask…” I would have been more tolerant. As it was, every time she said it I wanted to scream. And yes, I was a bit more tightly wound in those days, thank you for asking.

Sorry, where was I?

Oh yes, so, that damn word appeared in the trees, with no clue as to the context. I sat and mulled over things that I might ask. There were many. What I finally landed on, though, was a humble, sincere question.

“Am I doing this right?”

Because despite all the trusting and the following of baffling, life-changing instructions with no clue as to what was next, I worried that I was somehow messing it up. That there were things I was supposed to be doing that I wasn’t doing because I didn’t know I was supposed to be doing them, which in and of itself was a point of sensitivity for me. At my first highly toxic job when I got to Illinois, I had gotten reprimanded and called into meetings because I wasn’t performing certain tasks; tasks that I didn’t even know to do (which is what happens when you have your new employee -me- trained by the employee that you are transferring because she is terrible at the job). My boss even said once “If you aren’t sure if you’re supposed to be doing something, ask.” Hard to do when you don’t know there’s something to ask about. Sigh.

So, yeah, what a fraught conversation with the universe! Sheesh! I was just trying to relax and suddenly I was a tense little ball of spikes. “ASK”. Fuck you, spirit guides! Don’t tell me to “ASK” with no context! Grr.

I honestly felt deflated. When I finally said, “Am I doing this right?”, they instantly showed me the word “YeS”

Oh. Okay then. Good.

Was this a test to see what my priorities were? To see if I was still putting importance on my romantic life or something else equally irrelevant? I was happy to know I was doing it right, but at that point I was feeling done with the conversation. Time to get up and do something.

It was my last night there, so I started moving some things from the trailer to the car in preparation, and I left the trailer door open as I went back and forth. Salty was sitting just inside, but showed no real interest in going outside (it was still too light out for her, she preferred the dark of night for her excursions).

The couple who were sitting in front of their fire were watching me. I glanced over and waved, said “Hi there! How are you two this evening?”, and the woman called out, “We wanted to tell you how impressed we are that your cat stays inside when the door is open!”

I turned and smiled, “Well, she does go outside, but only at night… it’s a whole story, if you want to hear it.” They smiled and waved me over. I walked toward them, stood nearby where they were sitting. “She’s an indoor/outdoor cat, and this is our home now…” and I told the story of how Salty got her freedom. Which I realize now that I haven’t shared here yet, but I will, another time.

The woman winced a bit, “It’s so hard to turn an outdoor cat into an indoor cat, but it sure is better if you can do it.” She smiled almost apologetically. “I’m an animal rehabber - well, no so much anymore - and I’ve taken care of a lot of birds that got caught by outdoor cats. Outdoor kitties are just so destructive.”

“Oh, you do animal rehab, that so wonderful! I did a lot of transports last summer for Flint Wildlife Rehab in Illinois,” I said, and we were off and running. I stood there for quite a while, chatting about animals, (she mainly cared for bunnies, but occasional possums and squirrels and even reptiles - she was a zookeeper for years), and other like topics. After awhile the gentleman asked if I’d like to join them, and offered to bring me a chair. “I would love to join you,” I said. “I’ll just go grab my chair and I’ll be right back.”

Let me just say that while this sort of interaction is easy for me, because I am a people person and perfectly comfortable having intimate conversations with strangers, actually joining them was out of character, and my comfort zone. While I was standing I could control things, like my own participation. Joining them meant I would have to just sink into whatever came next. If I’m sitting with them, that’s a commitment, if that makes sense. Plus I was still a little high, and I try to keep HighRhon out of the public if at all possible.

But I did it, I joined them. I could tell these were my kind of people, and I felt genuinely comfortable with them. After all, wasn’t this was exactly the kind of thing I was supposed to be doing?

The next four hours flew by - and what a gift it turned out to be! I got the privilege and pleasure of hanging out with Vicky and Jeff, burning through four bundles of wood, talking long past the 10pm quiet time.

Vicky was the talker of the couple - it was obvious right away that they had been together a very long time, and Jeff was used to his friendly wife and her spontaneous conversations. He seemed perfectly happy to just let our conversation flow around him, chiming in once in awhile. “Don’t mind me if I don’t have much to say,” he said, “This time of year Vicky is usually camping with her ‘Rowdy Goddess’ group, but…” “I haven’t been able to join them for the past two years,” Vicky finished for him. “…And that’s why you’re here,” he said. It was obvious to him that I was brought into their circle by divine intent, to provide his wife with her much-needed time with another woman on a spiritual quest. Her knees were a wreck, and she was scheduled for replacement surgery, but for the past two years her normal activities had been seriously curtailed. I was a gift for them as much as they were for me.

So many topics were covered that it is impossible to remember them all - the conversation flowed from animals to children to traveling to camping. All throughout was woven our tales of spiritual quest. Jeff took on the task of firetender - under the watchful eye of his wife, who was usually the firekeeper of the family. “I’m a fire whisperer,” she said, “I’ve gotten fires started in the pouring rain, haven’t I?” Just one of the many rhetorical questions she would ask to make sure he was included. Amiable Jeff would agree or disagree, entering the chat when it pertained to him, but otherwise just chuckling and firetending. Vicky and I settled into a groove.

I’ve talked about how much I love conversations when you are in such sync with someone that you talk over each other easily, speaking together as if sharing the same memory. In many ways that was true: For example, both of us had tried various religions over the years. Wicca we liked but didn’t particularly resonate with. We both appreciate ritual - we love Catholic midnight mass and its gorgeous solstice solemnity, with candles and voices raised in song. Otherwise our spiritual quests have been private and ongoing; undertaking journeys (her word) and quests (mine) to dig deep into shadow work - to process past traumas and behaviors, to understand how they affected us. To alchemize our pain into something that was helpful.

We both came from childhoods of various trauma - although her experience was much more violent. I talked about only recently embracing forgiveness of my mom - so recent that although I am happy to interact with her in the spirit realm, I still wince inwardly when I see her picture.

“My entire family knows how I feel about my mom - they know that I don’t really want to talk about her - and they respect that boundary,” I said, “So you could hear a pin drop - metaphorically - when I said in our group text that I thought mom would love a trip like this, and asked my sisters for some of her ashes to take with me and leave along the trail.”

She nodded. “I made a really intense ‘journey’ to face my father,” she said. “I severed our connection. We were in a car together, and there was a cord connecting us, and I just…” she made a chopping motion, “…cut it.” There was still a lot of anger and pain in her voice. “The best thing he ever did was to give me a puppy. I still don’t know why he did it. He brought it home to make it a hunting dog, but he didn’t train it at all,” Then she laughed, “When the dog went after the squirrel he’d shot and started eating it, my dad was so mad. But how do you expect a dog to do anything different if you don’t train them?” She stared into the fire. “So that dog became mine. And he was so, so protective of me. One day my dad went to strike me and my dog went after him. Got right between us. After that my dad didn’t try that anymore.”

“He let you keep the dog?” I was surprised, given what she’d told me about her dad.

“Yeah, he did. I don’t know why.” Vicky’s voice was questioning, like it hadn’t occurred to her how unusual that was.

“That’s so interesting,” I said. “After everything he took from you, the one thing he let you keep was the one thing that protected you from him.”

“You’re right,” she said. “You’re right. I’d never really thought about it like that.”

It was only one of the several times we gave each other food for thought. We absorbed each other’s words like sponges, thirsty for confirmation and acknowledgement that we were not, in fact, crazy.

“That’s how our Rowdy Goddess group is,” she said wistfully. “It’s a group of woman of all ages, we found each other through a larger group of women who met once a year to camp together. The Rowdies in particular, we’re all very spiritual. So we get together and talk about our journeys, what we’ve learned, where we’re at. I miss them.”

“That’s why I’m so glad you showed up,” Jeff said again. “You were sent here to fill in for the Rowdies. Vicky really needed that.”

We also talked about the strangeness of realizing that we didn’t really know who we were, no longer under the mantle of our careers and motherhood. Not knowing how to introduce ourselves. “I used to say, ‘My name is Vicky, I’m a vet tech, I’m a zookeeper, I’m an animal rehabber… but now, I’m just… retired.” She shook her head, again looking to the fire for answers. “I’m a shamanic pagan, on a journey,” she said. “But that’s not something you can say to just anybody, you know?”

“Oh, I know,” I laughed. “I felt like I was taking a chance when I told you two that my spirit guides had told me to sell my house and move into that,” I gestured to my trailer. “But I’m at the point where I don’t care. If people don’t understand it, that’s fine. Most of them don’t. I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to meet you two. I’ve been out here looking for my soul tribe, and here you are in Lynchburg, Virginia. Who’da thunk?”

It was a wonderful night. It gave me so much joy, so much hope. And finally - finally - I did not feel so alone. We saw each other, we recognized each other, we embraced each other fully as friends and soul sisters. It was effortless, and beautiful.

The next morning I waited to leave until they had arisen, and gave them a copy of a children’s book that I love, “The Big Orange Splot”, by Daniel Pinkwater. It’s the tale of a man who lives on a ‘neat street’, who by a twist of fate gets orange paint dropped on his roof. Instead of mourning the mess and cleaning it up, he was inspired by it. His house became a rainbow, a festival of color and jungle. The neighborhood was baffled and outraged. One by one they go to him to try to talk some sense into him, and one by one they leave and turn their own houses into the fanciful dwellings of their dreams. It’s a story of finding oneself, of freedom, of being your most authentic self, and letting that have whatever affect it has on the world.

Vicky and I hugged tightly. We did not exchange numbers or even talk about meeting in the future. We know we will always be near each other, and probably always have. I drove away, feeling for the first time that maybe there is purpose to all this. So full of gratitude. So full.

And thinking I may need to paint a big orange splot on Ripple.

‘Til next time,

Rhon