would Mary Oliver have wanted to borrow this piece of my clothing? I think so

she had her box of darkness… I have this

Hi friends,

A close friend once told me that it was as if everywhere I went, I wore a cloak of glittering sadness.

in my last email, I talked about surprises. how I love the magical interplay of them. the flicker of clarity, of juicy real life goodness that arises from an unexpected moment with another human being.

did this astute and lyrical observation surprise me at the time? absolutely. but in a way, it wasn’t surprising at all. the conceit—see also: inescapable reality—of that glittering cloak certainly made its way into the lexicon of my poetry over the years, but even more than that, I took it on as a kind of identity. an extension of myself.

it was as if as long as I wore it, I would be safe from the regular ugly of pain and sadness and anxiety. the hideousness of everyday heartbreak. no, mine was beautiful, and glamorous, and unexpected, and it fucking shimmered, and everywhere I went I could don it and be protected from the mundanity of ordinary suffering.

and the truth was, it did protect me. it made every dark and painful thing that came after that bearable. the multiple disappointments, heartaches, the time the company my friend and I worked for laid me off unexpectedly, every single Bad Thing that Happened on the News, before or since. against every repugnance, I held a righteous fortitude. I could cradle these small and shining fragments of courage, keep them warm and close against my chest, or else hide them beneath the silky folds of the garment.

as Mary Oliver would say, it made every box of darkness a gift.

so who was I to put it down? I have been known to think, even still, several years later. who was I to say, “fuck off, glittering cloak!” and watch it fly away, like something out of a Marvel superhero flick.

or, that’s enough, sadness. I’m taking you off and trying on a new coat.

admittedly, there are times when I still find it difficult. after so many years of identifying with the things that took from me, so that they couldn’t take all of me. so that I could define how I wore them on my person, how I strode through the world with a kind of steely-pretty armor. I’m still finding my way toward who I am and what that might mean if I decide to take this gorgeous, weighty thing off.

and maybe, just maybe, hang it at the back of my closet, where it’ll be waiting, quiet and sure, if I ever need it.

do you have your own box of darkness? or else something like my glittering cloak?

I’d love to know.

xx

Kimia