Cling

LJ reminds me to let go of my symbols.

I rather think I need to hold on to a few.

At some period of my childhood, I collected the TV Guide covers, the only magazine in our house. I suspect there was one marked, pretentiously "Collectors Edition!" And I clung to it. I taped them up on the slanting wall of my room, for a couple of years, Lucy, and the cast of Barney Miller, and every Season Preview! Until, one day, for reasons I can no longer recall, my interest waned, and I decided this was unutterably lame, and ripped them all down, threw them away. I believe I kept a few, for a while, then tossed them, as shabby and pointless, as well.

I wore my mother's (resized) baby ring until I wore a wedding ring. That pretty gold band I kept past the divorce, in my purse, which was stolen, and then I regretted not pawning it for a few useful dollars. The silver band D gave me for our marriage, with Kokopelli dancing, I accidentally threw away. Asked to scrub in to hold retractor, I became ill, and had to rush out, and home. Only after I got home did I realize my ring was gone, in the pocket of the scrub top, never to be found. I found a little silver ring this past week at our hotel gift shop, and wear it as a gift from D, but I know it has a good chance of being lost before too long.

I look at my possessions, and know I must denude my life again. As before, I intend to keep the old, eclectic collection of christmas tree ornaments, treasured images entrusted to pine trees, packed in tissues in a potato chip barrel, family leftovers, old neighborhood ladies donations to the only family in the street with children, a glass lantern that once lit up, that belonged to Granny. Now in a salvaged kitty litter plastic tub. They feel like a trust to pass on again. I keep some of my pottery work, a wooden child's chair from the Windsor School District (remaindered, rescued by Uncle Ernie.) Single items from various phases of my life. The dulcimer that needs to be tuned, that I do not play. A carved wooden chest that I have often considered selling, but D likes it, and the small drawers hold items we don't want to lose. The treasures that survived the Ex. And what I missed, what I grieved? Recipes and photos.

I once shaved my hair off, as a long treasured curiosity, for the practical reason that I was so deeply stressed by my newish job and D's shattered arm, that hair was one less thing to worry about. After a few years, I went through the annoyingly long and irritatingly ratty process of growing it out a bit, the only reason I have not buzzed my head more often. I was shocked at how many women told me "OH, I could NEVER do THAT!" I assured them it was quite easy, although the re-grow phase was a bit difficult. I had to give up my image of myself with dark chestnut hair, as I dyed the grey black as the next best choice. Now I ease myself to a new reality, with temporary brown until there is enough grey to be transformed again.

My face changes, showing mom and aunts, in my mirror every day. I find not vanity, but a kind of mesmerism in my photobooth images, as you may have noticed. A kind of miracle I still have my breath. After almost losing that, and knowing that it will be asked of me again, one day, I find I can do that. Hurts, grievously, achingly, but, I can. We all can. Certainly prefer not to, but we can. We can discard all our possessions, shave our heads, walk naked into the world, and find we still exist, with more left than our greedy selves can imagine.


And if, tomorrow, all I had burned to the ground, and I was left standing in my pyjamas, holding Moby, D holding me, I would grieve. Lift my shoulder, drop a few tears, and replace all my ID, again, and start all over, again. All a matter of practice, I think.