The dress is good. It swishes. It takes up room. It comands space around it. I find myself walking around things so as not to have to squeeze by.
It drags. It was getting dirty and then I put it in the wash. oops. but good oops.
I am getting comments like: " Wow, you look pretty." "Oh my" and "Is she the one with the ball gown on?" There is no hiding in a gown. You are out there. Exposed.
I felt so exposed visiting my friend's parents in Northfield, that I couldn't muster the courage to wear it for the hour that we were there for. I learned a lot about myself in that hour, feeling naked without the dress, even though I was wearing pants and a t-shirt underneath.
The dress is also annoying me. The top is not a perfect fit. I pull it up and it still sags. My chest, changed by motherhood does not have the props to keep the top up, even with the support bodice underneath zipped up to to a breath taking squeeze.
I trip on the hem a lot. I lift up the skirt feeling like an exhausted Disney cliche. Even my son reminds me that "Momma. your skirt is getting dirty."
I have not stitched on this dress yet. I am stitching every day on a piece of silk. This silk will eventually become one wit h the dress, but for now I am getting to know the dress. Her history is shared with someone else, she was given to me. I am still learning a lot about her, while still stitching about me on the silk. There is a dialogue that is developing. It is about space, language, in between spaces, and the shape language gives to in between.