Undressing
It happens every year. Earlier since I moved up to the Northern Rivers as the winters are shorter. But there is a moment when I stand in front of my wardrobe at a loss for what to put on.
I start trying things on, ripping them off and throwing them back on to my bed until my clothes are piling up like a stack of dirty washing.
The problem?
The warmer weather has arrived and I think I have nothing to wear.
I emphasise the word ‘think’ because it is all in my head. The truth is my closet is full to the brim and there are lots of potential items there.
But after months of layering on jackets and jumpers, long pants and long sleeves, I’m having to expose my skin for the first time, and it is well, confronting.
I get to see the bits and bobs I sometimes fight against. Dimples on my legs, more wrinkling and less elasticity in my arms, a paler complexion and essentially a winter-hidden body.
And today was the day I did again. A northerly was blowing, the sweat beads appearing on my skin, the appeal of my track pants and jeans waning. So I turned to my closet and put on a few summer dresses and a couple pair of shorts and singlets. They were in the ‘dirty washing pile’ quicker than I could blink.
The odd part is that I love summer. I love the feel of loose cotton dresses against my skin. I love the way the wind blows the hems and creates ballon like waves. I love wearing less.
And somehow and somewhere between now and summer, I forget about all of this and put on bikinis without thinking twice. Alright, yes, sometimes I still might stumble, but not in the way I did today.
The thing is this moment is not unlike other moments in our life when we have to shed layers.
Meeting a new romantic interest. Undressing with this lover for the first time or sharing our deepest wound. We feel vulnerable, exposed, naked in all manner.
Or when I write something and share a piece of my heart that hasn’t been shared before. A virgin subject. Just like now. It’s another peel of the onion revealed.
And I wonder is this what happens as we age too. Each year something has shifted, a new scar or mark to put on display. At first it stands out and is somewhat frightening to us, but over time that dims and just merges into our overall figure, just as the scent of perfume fades as the day progresses. That crease at the side of my eye I noticed on my 30th birthday is now part of a family of creases. The one age spot I noticed on my chest in my 40s is also one of many. It all blends, kind of like a soup or smoothie.
Today as I pulled clothes on and off, I pondered what helps me get from now to that peak phase of summer when I’m more carefree. I guess it’s time. It’s practice. It’s getting used to it. Like any new behaviour or even hobbies we begin.
If you’ve read some of my earlier pieces, you’ll have noticed I’ve taken up ceramics. It’s interesting how the worlds of clay and writing are intersecting for me. After each class I sit down and pen something. Below is my latest piece, because it kind of works in really well with the subject I’ve just broached.
I’m so gentle with the clay. I handle her with such care, tenderness and love. And I honour her breaks, bruises and irregularities with a deep level of respect. So I feel that the more I work with the clay, the more I too can be softer with myself and acknowledge the shifting seasons, be ok with the times I’m not ok, and embrace the passing years with greater ease.
I’m curious. Does anyone else have similar wardrobe moments?
Ceramics as meditation
Clay class has become a meditation for me.
It’s just me and a piece of earth.
And each week I get to mould this earth into a shape.
A vessel for life to flow through. A vase for flowers. A bowl for fruit. A mug for tea. A plate for butter. A box for jewels.
My movements are slow, tender, revealing. I relish in each change of appearance. From a round ball to a flat slab. From wet mud to kiln-fired. From naked to glazed.
It’s the handling of the clay that gets me each time. So innate it occurs without thinking.
The way I turn her over with care. Steady her over a mould. Shape a circle with precision.
The way I stroke her skin. Smooth her rough edges. Soften her sides with the warmth of my palm.
The way I recycle every crumb. Keep cut-offs from drying out. Wrap her in a wet towel to stay moist.
The way I tend to her bruises. Work around her breaks. Allow her lopsidedness, unevenness and uniqueness.
The way I hold one hand supporting her under-layer, while using the other to leave my fingerprint as an indent on her skin.
The way I seem to be both a mother and lover to her.
This meditation is changing me. Softening me. Tenderising me.
And, I wonder, what if the world was a clay class. What if we all handled ourselves, one another and the earth around us in the same way 🙏🏻❤️
