Because what I bring to the table is rich.
~Detra, from Humans Of New York
I guess I wanted it to be like the time I drove myself to Chicago with nothing more than a backpack and my beloved bicycle. Chicago was his city. But I loved it. He knew the streets. But I felt them. He knew the rhythm of the stoplights. But my pulse knew them. He knew the el and its tracks. But I knew its people. When I went alone for that first time, I willed myself to have no fear. My resolution was to gather that city for my own heart: the streets, the song of the el’s electric poppings, the glittering shops and the fast cars, bottles of wine from the 7-11 and sweets from the chocolatier. I was on my way, I could feel it, to reclaiming myself as well.
Before I knew him, I was a free kind of woman. I danced through life, but this, this was frightening. Everything I knew was a shrill bark. My shoulders fell. My chin was in a constant state of quiver. I walked with my hands in a constant wringing, a guiltless Lady Macbeth. At the height of my divorce, which came with a side of pandemic, my therapist gave me assignments to chunk. Buy eggs. Check. Go to the PO. Check. Cry without shame. Check. I did them, but I did them with my hands clasped. No more casual swinging at the hips. No more dancing. I had lost my worth.
That week in Chicago, though, at dawn, I hopped on my bicycle and joined the commuters. Just to be part of a pack with purpose. With each revolution of The Loop, the lake on my right and the city to my left, I gathered new reflections. New reflections of myself. At night, I laced up my sneakers and walked. Just to walk. I bobbed myself in and out of bars and restaurants. Just to see what the table had to offer.
I tested my mettle and liked its grit.
But let’s not get side-tracked with tales of a city. I’m jumping ahead of the story. A couple of weeks ago, when I was shopping for a celebratory dress, I told the salesperson I was concerned that I would have to go braless and she exclaimed, like some sort of shaman, Then go braless. Celebrate all of you. This young girl reminded me that every sidewalk dip, every first blossom, even the corner where I got that nasty scar is a marker of independence. That tough anniversaries are both anchor and buoy at sea.
Sometimes when I drive past my lawyer’s office, my body remembers the iron weight. But, when I starfish in bed, I remember the nautilus nights. Oh, when I reminisce on lovers, oh. Think what you will, but my Post Divorce Bucket List is:
- Take a chance.
- No regrets.
- Love beautiful strangers.
He was young and beautiful. He adorned his fingers in silver and black stones. He was unbuttoned to three and when I asked, Do you want to kiss me? He lifted from his seat, placed his palms on the table, leaned across the table, and did. Later that night when he entered my body for the first time he looked me in the eyes. My whole body lifted to the moonlight.
I love moonlight and all things beautiful, but sometimes the ugly has to be sorted out. I have to sit and consider the weight. My therapist told me, you’re going to have to sit in the shit sometimes. And I’m paying her well, so I do.
As soon as I get out of that shit, though, I move forward, check in that I’m not holding on to ineffectual sentiment. I no longer wanted his bed. Sold. The chair he sat in to indulge his ego, on the curb. I no longer wanted his name. Erased. I purposely and deliberately chose and changed my name to one that suited my character – Wren. If you don’t know me, I’m tiny. 4’11” but loud. I have many songs and I want you to hear them all.
If you think I sing too loudly, speak too openly, swear with too much audacity, then you should fucking move on. If you think my skirt is too short, I will hike it. If you think my lipstick is too red, I will brighten it. If you think my hair is too wild, I will unleash it. I am a hot house flower, a screaming blue jay, a nap when work oughta be done, a guitar that wails. Tell me to pipe down and I will get loud.
I kept waiting to get loud on this milestone day, the day I signed divorce papers. I kept waiting on that Chicago epiphany to reappear. But there was no sound. I wasn’t sure there would be music.
Still, I rallied. I put on my favorite dress, (braless, dear shaman), white with embroidered fringe that sways at the knees, layered my most intimate jewelry and let it glitter against my freckles. I walked to the most decadent restaurant in town. My server, as a nicety, asked what brings you in tonight? I knew I had arrived when I could say it aloud.
Each time a server or bartender skirted my table, they would one by one, place a palm on my shoulder and whisper with shared glee, congratulations. Each time a plate was placed before me, I would put my hands on my cheeks and exclaim with a glance to the server that read like: are you serious? Food so luxurious it was sinful to not recognize: whipped goat cheese on grilled summer zucchini, pureed basil and prosciutto, seared halibut with raspberry compote and golden raison mostarda. Wine, so much glorious wine, I could taste sunlight.
But this is about more than food. It is about decadence and luxury and fully sensuous moments on the tongue. It is about being feral. This is a living out loudness. This is wildness. This is responding to the primal urge. This is what feral looks like. I don’t want to think. I want to do.
I will not be tame. It is not enough.
I will eat delightful figs, sucking the seedy meat from the skin. No apples for me. I will sleep with delicious men, strangers-become-lovers, caress their long legs, the fur of their decadence. I will ask you to walk me home and pilfer your guitar pick. I will copy your tattoos with my index finger. I will sip the dew-tipped pink. I will stumble into the moonlight. I will slumber under the stars.
I want to be startled by the beauty of it all. I refuse to be compliant or agreeable. I will roam this world without apology. My chin and shoulders will be a study in the classics. There will be no more wringing. There will be no more wishing for an invitation to the table.
You see, I always knew candles were for wishing, but I thought they were reserved for birthdays, certainly not divorce celebrations. At the end of the night my server wove herself through the diners with a slice of chocolate tart, dotted with crumb and strawberries, and yes, a slender pink candle, melted to the plate itself. I will wish on slender candles. I will wish for joy, sinuous experience, and passion. But, I will bring riches. I am the riches.
