Even towards the end of her life, my mother and I still didn’t agree on a whole lot. For example, I would have preferred she convince Dad to keep their downtown condo with the awesome view, but they opted for a gated adult community in the suburbs. So okay. Their choice. But one thing Mom and I shared was disapproval of my father’s wardrobe.
All his life, Dad opted for comfort. During the day, he dressed the part of your old school family physician complete with nifty bow tie. But as soon as he hit the front porch, he never changed into anything that wouldn’t have been soft enough to sleep in. He donned hand-knit sweaters and polyester pantsuits way before they were trendy.
But this was not what caused Mom and me distress. Once he retired, his wardrobe ossified. No new items were ever installed—at least not out of free will. Rather, his collection of favorites was left to fend for itself. The hand-knit sweaters got softer still as they aged, worn literally to the nub.
When his favorite pair of polyester running pants sprouted a hole, Mom and I tricked him into a changing room at a Sears where while trying on new bottoms, the old ones were quietly spirited away never to be seen again.
I have to say that in the end, the holes won. No matter how much and often we cajoled, implored and connived, the holes popped up faster and more persistently. Dad, who in this regard felt blessed to be hard of hearing, died at 91 a happy man.
So here I am, in my mere seventies, with not only another confession—but a revelation. My wardrobe: it’s full of holes. And what’s more, I don’t intend to do anything about it. I get it, Dad. I understand the absolute joy of discovering a button down that embraces you with comfort. A pullover so soft and light it is as if joy, itself, were kissing your body.
These didn’t become favorites by accident—and they are irreplaceable. The hand-loomed sweater bought in Ireland, the only one at the mill—probably in the whole world—with cashmere woven into the blend. When will I ever get back to Ireland—traveling with my adult daughter on a European road trip—stumbling onto the mill—finding this one perfect sweater in the world? The very same sweater that Molly, the poodle/Shih-Tzu mix, recently nibbled a hole into.
Then there’s my other favorite—this one an airy mohair woven from yarn so light it could almost float away. I know only I could love this because it was the very last sweater on the mark-down rack of what had been my favorite clothing store’s closing sale, plummeting down from the stratospheres I could never afford to a cool $15 because who, besides me, in their right mind would want to wear a giant frothy pink skull across her chest? I love this sweater so much, I have come to think of it as my spirit animal. The Irish sweater will get a patch so as to prevent further unraveling. But the skull mohair now has holes not only on the front, but all over the place, impossible to repair but beloved nevertheless.
Neither my husband nor my children have said anything to me about any of this yet. But then again, not only are they better people than I—but apparently clothes with holes in them have become fashionable. Still, I have to make peace with this for myself—the aging of not only my wardrobe, but of myself. When I was younger, my closet—like my life—was a river, raging with purpose. Clothing that manifested holes were let go of easily and replaced with something better. Now my closet—and my life—are more like a pond: quieted down, contained. Everything in it has become that much more precious because it cannot or will not be replaced.
And there you have it: It was I who threw Dad’s pants away into the Sears’ garbage while he stood just behind the curtain trapped helpless in his boxers. I get it now, Dad. You not only wore your holes—you cherished them. It was never about suffering a deficit of self-respect. I see now that your level of self-respect was just fine, and that in addition you had achieved a level of freedom to which I now aspire.
Stripped of false ego and illusion, the veil between you and the Divine had worn thin, indeed. Worn to the nub, in fact.
To Continue Reading, CLICK HERE
This excerpt provides a preview of the complete Older, Wiser, Fiercer: The Wisdom Collection, available now in paperback and Kindle eBook editions. To purchase, click HERE.
____________________________________
Join the conversation about Carol Orsborn’s Older, Wiser, Fiercer: The Wisdom Collection in the comment section below this entry. To comment on the Collection as a whole, click HERE and scroll to the comment section below the Prologue.
Copyright © 2019 by Carol Orsborn. Permission granted by the author to share this excerpt for non-commercial purposes with proper credit given to Carol Orsborn, Older:Wiser, Fiercer: The Wisdom Collection at CarolOrsborn.com. For longer or multiple excerpts, contact the author at Carol@FierceWithAge.com for written permission.
Feel free to share this providing proper credit to Carol Orsborn
and a link to CarolOrsborn.com.
