I am working on a new project which I am not going to get into just now, but it is a reflection project. Reflecting on all things beautiful, hideous, past, present, in general and in depth. Of course people play a major role in this.
I remember being fifteen years old and strolling down the hallway of the tiny Raymond High School. I was wearing skinny jeans and they were juuuuust becoming ok again. Translation: only a couple of people in Raymond had caught on at this point. A million people, even my closest friends used to mock the dickens out of me because this is the kind of thing I chose to wear, what I chose to wear was off. It did not bother me much, most of what I have done my whole life is off! I would be a liar if I proclaimed to be strong as an ox and sure enough of myself back then that it did not create a bit of doubt, I was an awkward fifteen-year-old after all. Years passed and I did not think much about these things until moments like this one. It is pooring rain outside currently, and I'm listening. Down falls not the majestic sort of rain that steals the streetlights thunder as it dances and gleams, but heavy, thick rain. Rain that falls in singular, grand drops and slowly darkens the color of wooden porches and asphalt. I took a break from my project and went and stood in it. I stood in the middle of the sidewalk and let the large drops soak me. Soak my hair and my cotton clothing just as it did a few months ago in Cantebury, England.
I stood, waiting to be let into a cathedral, and I was soaked from head to toe. I didn't care about being wet that day either. I was standing their perfectly content, content with a feeling of magnificence and appreciation for where I stood. I was entirely absorbed when from the left side of me came some remark about the state of my hair. Apparently the wet look just wasn't working for me. First the skinny jeans, and now wet hair. Me oh my. Instead of shuffling down the hallway of RHS a little slower with my head just slightly deflated, I lifted my chin and grinned. My hair was ugly? Look at her hair? Her Vans Shoes? Her all too often clad in black self? That bone-y creature? Who was she kidding? Who was I kidding? Not. One. Soul. I was kidding no one. My hair was wet because I let it be. My hair was wet because I was entirely too content and too moved to care. My hair was wet because I had just frolicked around in the streets with those most dear, and I was too happy to care. I rubbed in that natural moisture and let my mane run absolutely wild. I like it that way. I sit here now, the gold locks as psychotic as ever, listening to the thunder pound the Earth. Shake the very ground this house is built on, and I think of the people who try to do the same. Some do, naturally, they flip the nation without even knowing their magnitude. Those are the brilliant ones. The ones capable of inspiring. Others try and fail. Others think the solution is to take the world in their hands and shake with all their might until something is different. Until something has been pushed down a level and they have risen. They feel with their rising their skills and their stature have increased. This makes me grin. Grin because it is so flawed and the realization of that will one day sink in, just as the rain does to the grass now.
Tying the Knot
1 week ago