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.
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