Ho dudes... I just wished a co-worker Happy Friday and she reminded me, Happy Friday the 13th!
DUN-DUN-DUNNNNN!!!!
Aha. Here I thought this was just my monthly clumsy day, but now I see it's much more serious than that.
But first, a prologue: As a woman who is rather in awe of other women, both present and back and back and back in history, I would very much like to conceive of 13 as an auspicious, feminine, lunar number. There are 13 lunar cycles per year, and as I hunker down into the colder days, I really am trying harder this year to recognize and go with nature's cycles, rather than against them. Maybe this means that if this WERE the day of the month that always seems to come around when my depth perception and equilibrium leave me to spill, trip, and stumble my way through the day...well, maybe going with it would mean slowing down, sticking closer to home, being mindful of myself and where I'm at and generally taking care to be patient with myself. That feels right. I'd like to go back and maybe tell that to my 8-year-old self on the day I came to see this as a day of high misfortune.
So here's what happened. I was in the 3rd grade and it was Friday the 13th and my mother had scheduled our first family photo since my parents split up; we were to be at the photographer's studio right after school. The idea for the shot was that my three younger sisters and my mom and I were going to be dressed up in all-white frilly lacy stuff against a white background. Angels, see. Well, since the shoot was so soon after school got out (and since she was trying to manage an 8-year-old, a 6-year-old and two 3-year-olds largely on her own for the first time), my mother sent me to school in my fancy white dress and my fancy white shoes and my fancy white tights. I went out the door with a hug and a warning to be very careful not to get anything on my clothes.
It was a long time ago, so my memory of this day is fragmented into three very vivid moments with darkness in between and around the edges.
Snapshot one: Walking alone along the sidewalk on the way to school. Feeling pretty and singing a made-up song to myself. A wide and silty puddle along the curb. A clunky old car speeding round the corner. A fast splash almost as tall as me. Soaking dress, soaking tights, cold and gray from the waist down.
Snapshot two: Running at recess. Suddenly face-down on the blacktop with gravel in my palms and, of course, my knees. Getting up and frantically dusting off my knees as droplets of blood appeared and smeared around the edges of the holes in my tights.
Snapshot three: Sobbing on Mrs. Clark's shoulder in the empty classroom, trying to explain between hiccups how I had ruined my mom's angel picture. Three of my girlfriends peeking in through the windows along the wall. Mrs. Clark telling me it wasn't my fault, it was just Friday the 13th striking again!
Hm.
My sisters and I always half-joke that the stories my parents tell from their childhood are all kinda depressing. Having just written this, I'm now having one of those ever-increasing freaky moments of omgI'mturningintomyparents.... Soooo let me try to parse out what it is I see in this story today, looking back.
Mrs. Clark was so sweet to comfort me and not to blame me (for getting myself all dirty) or my mother (for sending a little kid to school in fancy white clothes). But she totally threw Friday the 13th under the bus, man! And here I am, a full-grown adult, getting real nervous because I just realized the spiteful day has come around again.
I think there may be another lesson here and I think it has to do with that thing I'd like to be able to go back and tell that sad and guilty little kid now, which would go something like: Kiddo, you're not an angel. You're better than that. You're human. And you have to let yourself be human so that you can find out all the wonderful things you are capable of as a human being. So get yourself some rad playclothes and go do exactly what it is you feel like doing right now, because that is where you will find out who you really are.
So far this morning, my bangs are stubbornly sticking straight up, I spilled my mocha on the Starbucks counter, and I knocked a bunch of stuff off my desk. Most often, days like this make me feel like a hopeless mess. But what if this time I just slow down and listen. What if I honor being human by stopping and breathing and listening to what it is I'm really yearning for today.
I'm thinking it's Sigur Ros and hot tea and maybe my new oil paints and uninterrupted time to pay undivided attention to the girl in my NaNoWriMo novel who's about to dig herself a new home underneath the ruddy roots of an ancient madrona tree.
And how will you celebrate this Friday the 13th?
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