Dirty Boots And All
Today Ricky and Noel came and put this beautiful lady in her proper place, finishing my living room. And with naught but a measuring tape, two nails, and a miniature spirit level, they did much more than that; in some strange way they brought to a close my stage of getting comfortable in this, my new life.
That lady, she’s me, sort of, and now she’s home. Gazing into the future, but not looking like she’s forgetting the past. Disheveled and gorgeous at the same time, she looks unconventional (is that a bird on her head?) and glamorous, all in one.
Of course, I’m discovering just how unglamorous I can be. I’ve never been much for making more of myself than I just naturally am. But now I’m discovering the pleasure of muddy boots, work gloves, vine leaves in my hair, pomace on my hands, not caring. In fact, feeling kick-ass about it. The power, the freedom, they’re intoxicating. Some days I feel invincible.
But I’m finding that I do cry a lot, still. Or rather, again. For a couple of months there I was too busy moving and navigating my life as a student (grades??? exams??? seriously???) to let myself remember. But now things are settling down, and with them, my heavier heart speaks more insistently. To be alone in this world demands all the courage I have, and no amount of muddy-boot-ass-kicking can change that.
But now I have the lady to remind me: to keep my eyes on the wide open days of my future, to be whoever I can be in the sometimes tear-drenched, sometimes exalted present. To have blue hair if I want to, and birds on my head, to have a clear gaze and lips that are ready for anything and to drip right off the bottom of the world when I need to.
Thanks, Ricky and Noel, for giving me all that.