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, especially ourselves.
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, can I let her go? Or is there a deeper story that wants to be told?