Lately my hands and my brain have been very busy making What-I’m-Going-To-Do-With-My-Life out of interdisciplinary arts, education, wooden dreams, ideals that turned out to be not so far gone as I’d imagined, and other people’s money. I’m still only just on the brink, but I’m beginning to fall in love with the sound of pieces coming together and stars aligning. (It’s like this deep, celestial ripping sound—like when a torrent of rain peels itself from the sky.)
And when I haven’t been doing that, I’ve been trying to convince Ruthie that she’s not afraid of the dark, a task almost as difficult as trying to convince myself that I’m not afraid of failure. And I’ve been wondering if maybe it’s not so much about pretending not to be afraid as it is about accepting the darkness and the failure that makes the fear piece go away. And I’ve been noticing how all-of-a-sudden Ruthie grew so tall and so smart, which is painful in the hurt-so-good way of falling in love. And I’ve been promising myself to write, but I generally tend to put that off until tomorrow, which always seems to be the most convenient time to accomplish most tasks.
I have this pair of jeans. We’ve been through a lot together–nine patches, two fly-zippers, one busted belt-loop, most of my twenties. And they still make my ass look great. Confidence, comfort, and a nice ass all wrapped up in the perfect-shade-of-blue dreamy denim. They don’t cut off the circulation in my thighs and the waist doesn’t make my stomach pooch over when I sit down to a big plate of pasta. They forgive, but they don’t forget, and the not-forgetting is what makes them the best because they love me anyways. I’m my best self in these jeans and the more I wear them, the more myself I feel.
These and a ring I bought myself just after I got divorced. These are my everyday talismans. I wore both when I went on my Very Bravest Adventure to boldly spend 17 hours doing something I’ve never done before with people who initially intimidated the hell out of me (and meant to). And all of us–ring, jeans, self–came out living, breathing, wishing only for this life.