Uniform

Dear Ones, I was invited by a dear friend to join a group of people who are reading The Artist’s Way and supporting each other through the process it inspires. I read (most of) it a while back, and I had forgotten how personal it is. Autumn is a time to reflect deeply, though, so I’m here for it.

Today’s draft is inspired by Chapter 1, and the dance we all do with our negative self-talk.

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedI went to Catholic school, all girls,all dressed in the same gray polyester uniform skirt.One skirt for four years -- how many times sliding into and out of those desks --It was indestructible, that skirt.I have never known anything so durable --except the skin-close garment woven from the teachers who berated me(for my own good),the students who bullied me.After the last day of school, I sat on my back deck, uniform skirt in one hand,matches in the other. I had permission to burn it.I had no idea about fabrics and fire and what could possibly happen.I touched the hem of the skirt with a lit match,imagining a flaming fabric torch,smoke to smudge away the past four years.The flame dredged out a ring of thick, melted plastic,Then died. The pinching smell of burning plastic burst through the humid air, for a second,then was gone.I contemplated going on,holding every match in the box to this gray polyesteruntil I made a ball of melted plasticwhich I would throw as hard as I could into the woods,or tuck into a drawer to follow me through homes and moves and the rest of my life. In the end, I stuffed the skirt into the trash,rid myself of it -- except in memory.Except in the feeling of every harsh word on my bare skin.