Mrs. Carr

“Let us ever behold the red and purple sunset.”
- words taken from the Native Canadian Prayer (a favourite of Illoma’s)

I was 17; a hyper, high-energy girl struggling with a severe eating disorder. Bouncing around the halls of a brand-new boarding school. Seeking attention and yearning to be popular and liked. Deeply saddened by the fact that I was neither. Feeling like I wanted to run away. Feeling wounded. Feeling like I was on the verge of taking a hold of my life and steering it in a direction that I wanted. For the first time in my life.

And there was Mrs. Carr. A woman who's face is blurred in my memories but whose words and essence changed my life.

I just remember how I would meet with Mrs. Carr every week. How we would talk about the things that I was struggling with in my life. How she would pay attention to my feelings and my intensity and my fears and my anger. She listened. At a time in my life when I felt very lonely and found it very difficult to express all the noise that was inside of me, I found a sanctuary in her office. I found a quietness. I found a place where I was treated as an adult and where my choices and my decisions were accepted and respected.

I think it was a first for me. To be on the receiving end of such empathy and compassion and freedom. There were no control issues. There was no insinuated hierarchy. There were no rules. There was nothing more than what was happening in the moment. She was Illoma and I was Lisa and I would talk and she would listen.

She had a profound and lasting effect on me. I can't articulate the kind of gift of freedom she gave me. The kind of life lessons she passed along to me when she told me to trust my instincts, to believe in myself, to listen to my soul, to follow what made me happy.

Life lessons that are coming back to me full circle tonight as I say goodbye to her.

Thank you, Mrs. Carr. Rest in peace.