Monday, October 12, 2009

All For the Want of a Shoe

I have to find (and by have, I mean I must because the rare shopping urge has me in its grips, and will not let go until the task is done) find a pair of dark red, perhaps burgundy, that really pretty red wine color, shoes to go with my navy blue suit.

That I am wearing to my swearing in ceremony. I swear, if I don't find these shoes, I will take it as a sign from God that I was not meant to swear in as an attorney and I only got this far on sheer dumb luck.

I've arrived here, and looking back, I'm not sure how.

I never had the doctor-lawyer-president-marine biologist dreams that many kids have. My dreams were writer and illustrator of children's books, and then just writer, then to poet, and from there to English professor who is published with something, anything. I still do these things. I write, and I have a large folder of my works in progress. I have one large work in progress, which sadly, has been on hold for about a year. I need to fix that. I'm always doubtful about my skill as a writer or a poet, but the pieces I write are usually received well, by uninterested parties. And of course, Vor, but he surely does not count as an uninterested party.

What I am saying is, how did I get here? I am about to become a lawyer, which on its face, seems to be the thing farthest away from the creative and deeply litarery life I had always imagined. Why am I here, when I unpack my Virginia Woolf books and wistfully run my fingers along the binding and remember I want white petals that float when I tip the basin up. I have a fleet now swimming from shore to shore. . . . And I will rock the brown basin from side to side so that my ships may ride the waves. Some will founder. Some will dash themselves against the cliffs. One sails alone. That is my ship. . . . They have scattered, they have foundered, all except my ship which mounts the wave and sweeps before the gale and reaches the islands where the parrots chatter and the creepers . . . (The Waves). And I type that from memory. When I can't sleep, I recite T.S. Eliot in my head, like a soothing lullaby, like the mermaids singing, each to each. Except I have told those mermaids that I won't listen to them sing anymore.

These things I always thought I would be are gone now, and here I am, touching my suit, ten minutes away from work, and twenty away from the courthouse. Maybe Rhoda had it right-- I have to put off my hopeless desire to be Susan, to be Jinny. That doesn't mean that I cannot stretch my toes so that they touch the rail at the end of the bed; I will assure myself, touching the rail, of something hard. Now I cannot sink; cannot altogether fall through the thin sheet now. . . (The Waves)

I am me, still; I can be creative in this job. I can still write, for myself and maybe someday for others.

ButsohelpmeGod, if I do not find a pair of deep red shoes to go with this suit, I will take it as a sign.

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