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© Catherine Haslag
© Catherine HaslagDear Ms. L’Engle
Dear Ms. L’Engle,
My copy of A Wrinkle in Time, which I read in 5th grade.
It started as a school assignment
in 5th grade. Eighteen copies of A Wrinkle in Time lined up on the shelf like identical little soldiers as Mrs. Hitz talked about the first novel we were reading for the year. We were going to read 4 such novels between August and May. Yours has been with me ever since.
I still have the copy we read. Since our parents provided the money to buy the copies for the classes to share, we got to take them home at the end of the year. It has had an honored spot on my bookcase ever since. My steady companion for 30 years. It was my introduction to the sci-fi/fantasy genre of books. I loved the whimsy of Ms. Who, Ms. What, and Ms. Which. The tesseract boggled my young mind.
I related strongly to the heroine Meg, an awkward girl who doesn’t yet know or trust her abilities. Who doesn’t yet know where she fits in the world. My 11-year-old self hadn’t yet begun to really test what she was capable of let alone trust her abilities. Meg gave me a role model to learn from.
I eventually discovered there were four books about the adventures of Meg and her brothers. I devoured A Wind in the Door and A Swiftly Tilting Planet. I couldn’t get into the adventures of Sandy and Dennys in Many Waters. I am sorry to say they were my least favorite characters in the world you created. The only book of the Time Quartet I didn’t read.
In college, I discovered Meg had a daughter, Polly, when I read An Acceptable Time. I was at another turning point as I was stepping into the adult world. I could relate to Polly just as I had Meg when I was 11.
I recently listened to A Wrinkle in Time on audiobook through my library. It reads just as well at 40 as it did at 11. This time, I was reminded that I still have that unsure girl in me, my own internal Meg, but I also have experience that reminds me I have been tested and that I am strong. I know what I can do and I can trust my skills. I now know my place in this world. Your books helped me make this journey because I could relate to your characters and their challenges. Thank you for bridging that gap so I could grow into who I am today.
Sincerely,
Catherine
© Catherine HaslagNight Riding
One late summer evening, I had the opportunity to take a night ride on my bicycle. Headed home from yoga, with my mat slug across my back, I decided to take the long way. The air was relatively dry for a late-August Minnesota night. The sun had set 15 minutes prior and the street lights were on.
The obnoxious light on my rear bike tire that helps keep me safe during night rides.
There is something special about a night ride. When I walk, I usually have my AirPods in, listening to a book or podcast, and I am playing Pokémon Go. Yes, I am a 40-year-old-grown-ass-woman who plays Pokémon. Go team Mystic! Since I am on my bike, my AirPods are out and my phone is secured in my bag. Riding gets my full attention.
The songs of crickets and cicadas become my soundtrack. The lights from the cars and street lamps cast ever-changing shapes on the pavement around me. I look down between my pumping legs and see that obnoxious light spin in and out of my vision on my back tire, each time a different hue of the rainbow.
I see pockets of the world in the darkness. The shape of a tree against the darkening sky. The dimly lit front stoop of a home. The flashing bubble-gums of the county mounty who caught himself a speeder along Oakland. I let this different world surround me, embrace me. There is a stillness that comes with night riding and I open to it. I feel the cool pockets of air on my skin. I enjoy the intimacy and privacy that comes with darkness.
My eyes catch the first “star” in the sky as I turn towards home. Jupiter is bright and hovers above, guiding me back to the land of lamps and light.
Floor Furnace
In the fall of 2009, I was in the middle of a divorce. My 4.5-year marriage had been failing for longer than it had worked. It became apparent to me that this relationship wasn’t what I needed. A friend of mine owned a small rental house that was empty. She lent me the key so I could have a place to go to get away from my soon-to-be-ex-husband and the house we owned while the legal system caught up with what my heart already knew – that the relationship was over.
This is very much like the floor furnace I describe in my blog. Unfortunately, I do not have a photo of that actual floor furnace to share. (image obtained from Pinterest)
This rental house, a small 2-bedroom, 1-bath bungalow, had a floor furnace in the dining room that heated the house. That floor furnace would become my touchstone over the next year.
It is where I sat when I called my mom and told her I was divorcing my husband.
It is where, wrapped in a blanket, I sat and cried about the loss of the life I had known and tried to figure out what I wanted to do next.
It is where I stood each winter morning in my robe to warm myself after I moved into the bungalow and finalized my divorce.
It is where I conducted many hours of conversations with my very patient girlfriends as they helped me navigate the emotional labor of ending a marriage and moving forward with my life.
Its creaks and clicks became the soundtrack of my life while I surveyed the world and planned my next steps as a single woman.
Like a light bulb to a new-born chick, it provided me with physical warmth during an emotionally trying and cold period in my life.
In January 2011, I left the floor furnace and moved out of that bungalow, headed on a northern migration. I had that furnace for just one year, but that was all I needed. I had developed a plan forward and it was time to move on, much like the chick that outgrows its need for warmth from the light bulb.
There are times when we will realize the smallest thing did so much for us – a moment of understanding silence, a book that touched us deeply, a hot cup of tea at just the right time. These are the simple things that make the hard times in life bearable. While things and moments are fleeting, their impact on us lasts a lifetime.
© Catherine HaslagWhen Does My Life Course Catalog Arrive?
Photo of at my Master’s Degree Ceremony in 2005.
When I was in college, way back when Napster was king, Blockbuster was the go-to for movies, and AOL still mailed CDs, there was this thing called a course catalog. It was a book that colleges printed each year that contained every degree program and course the university offered. It was my bible for figuring out what classes to take each semester so I would finish my degree. It gave me direction through the maze of college. Each year I would pick up a new one from Carrington Hall and pour over it to determine which classes I needed to take not just for the next semester, but for my entire college career. I wanted to make sure I was taking the right classes this semester to set me up to take the right courses every following semester until graduation. It was my guide for 6 years for both my bachelor’s and master’s degrees.
Imagine my surprise when I graduated and entered the real world only to realize there is no course catalog for life. Nothing that explains what the next “right” thing to do is. No outline of the next 4 to 6 years. No clear description of prerequisites, options to choose from, or clear path of A to B will get me to C.
I am a planner. I have used many different planners to organize my life over the years, but none of them tell me what to do next. Do I stay with my current job or start looking for other options? How long do I stay in a relationship I am unsatisfied with before it’s time to end it? Is it still taboo to wear white shoes after Labor Day or can I keep wearing those cute white slingbacks until it snows?
Life is improvisation, learning as you go, and working with the information you have at the moment. Sometimes we succeed and sometimes we don’t. Each piece of life is a class with no syllabus, course description, or even a set semester. It took me a long time to realize that we don’t get a course catalog for life. Rather, we get to develop our own as we go.