the wedding dress
There was a beautiful post on social media the other day about how to “be” and ‘live”! Full of wisdom and good ideas.
Even so, I found myself talking back to the computer: Instead of this, I want to hear a story about how you failed and found your way back. Show me how you transformed your deepest pain; show me something you don’t want to expose, show me your interior spaces.
I know: I am speaking to myself. And I also know the writings of Brene Brown made it possible for this desire to even surface.
We can all say how things should be, or present a Self to the world and especially on social media of how we want to be, harder still to reveal the deeper core. I am not for mindless venting, or airing your dirty laundry as the saying goes, but some element of vulnerability is needed to move anyone.
Recently, in the midst of de-cluttering, I came across my mother’s wedding dress that my sister gave me years after my mom had died. My sister has a knack of sharing something meaningful of my mom’s at just the right time, and this was no exception.
Even though the dress was supposed to be perfectly preserved in a special box, one sleeve ripped at the underarm seam from the sheer weight of the old silk when I picked it up. I noticed the fabric had almost tarnished, along with the gold thread inside. Like a precious old urn left untended.
Knowing I am about to part with the most important dress of my mom’s life, I am looking for something I can salvage: some kind of clue, some new discovery, some story hidden beneath the surface.
Going over the interior stitches with my hand, I realize there are things about her I will never know. There are no clues here. No hieroglyphics. Clinging to her dress won’t change this.
But these small stitches, though unraveling, once held her, and hold a truth even if not spoken. They are as close as I can get now.
And in revealing them, I am wondering if can I let her go?