Wardrobe Switch

It was the morning after my doctor’s appointment that I decided to wear a tied-dyed shirt that did not belong to me. It belongs to one of my sisters, which one I’m not completely sure, but I did not take it out of my laundry pile that my mom accidentally put it in when I was at home for a few weeks ago. I thought about it, for a moment, and then decided to give into the forces of the universe that had some how directed it to the space between my jeans and underwear, and I placed it in my Portland-bound suitcase. Neither sister would be happy about it. But I guess it’s like taking a little part of them with me as I press forward with this year. A bit of protection. A reminder that there are still reasons to celebrate. And a small hope that the shirt would bring out the best in me, and that in the midst of my nagging patients to go to their appointments, it would make me feel a little more alive.

So from that moment on, the week started to look up a bit. Matthew, former patient that liked to play the flute, brought in assorted cheesecake for the staff. I opened the card to see big, block-like handwriting thanking us for our help when it was so needed. I talked to John about plane tickets to Boston, who hopes to see his family for the first time in ten years sometime this summer. I made some phone calls and faxed some papers. I wiped the dust off my desk and locked my computer screen before coming home.

It’s funny how hard it is to be far away sometimes, most of the time from things I never thought I’d feel far away from. But there is the lack of sun, the long nights in the library writing papers, the protective shell of college, and the way the trees cast shadows on Harding Street on a sunny day. There is my lazy dog, my old college dorm room and the centerpiece on the dining room table (a large bowl of glossy stones). It’s hard to love people from far away and not wish that you were with them, and it’s hard to open yourself up to something very new. New people, new streets, new grocery lists. I’m learning that it’s a process, and probably one that I’ve struggled with before, and will to struggle with after JVC.

We went to the contemplative mass at the Jesuit church in Southeast Portland for our community night. It was dark and quiet, and the choir sang amazing grace and the priest talked about a wedding that he gone to. He said it was beautiful, that the bride changed into out of her gown into a red dress and then into a sweatshirt in jeans. He marveled over the fried turkey, the people, the dancing. He said was love there, and for some reason, he thought it was worth telling everyone about it.

Our community sat in one pew. I felt a great strength in that. That even though this has been hard, that I often find myself unsure of what I am doing and what I will be doing afterwards, it will be okay.

(Written 1/17/10)