I wore all black today, Presidents’ Day, to keep me minded of Resistance.
Wearing mourning is something we all know about our culture (in fact many cultures) without really thinking about it. Less practiced today than in our recent pasts, it is still understood as a sobering demeanor, a visible lack of interest in the colors of the world.
Dressing for ritual is not new to me; I have enjoyed costuming to a purpose for many years. Usually these are happy occasions when I bring out the symbolic jewelry and tie dye. But the principle is the same: to support a particular mood or emotional state. To send a message to those around us of what we are all about.
And about now, I am furious and fearful, outraged and obsessed with doing everything I can to alter reality for the better – MY definition of “better!” And so the clothes.
And in fact, because they are not my usual statement, I am more conscious of them as the role I play, and I have learned a few things:
Because the comfort of my trainers has been sacrificed to the boot god of color, I walk in this role differently than every other day. My changed posture in fact straightens my spine a little, and that is good because I need it.
Because all I can see is black, I have contemplated that black is the absence of color, and what a tragic thing that is. I yearn for a splash of orange or some expanse of purple, and now I can see why, and that mourning is defined by giving up something important.
Because I am not as comfortable in this skin, I know that I need practice so that I can step up to the plate here and use those boots to kick some ass. I need to wear the intention, if not the actual clothes, more often, and I will just have to get used to it.
So in spite of feeling a little silly for dressing up this morning, I have learned once again that attention to my own details helps me explain, understand, and support my self; a little of the oh-so-important perspective that we all need to keep ourselves sane.