A while ago I found a wedding dress in an Edinburgh charity shop. It was beautiful and brand new (with tags on and all) so I got it thinking "that can be my backup, and that will take away the stress of having to find a dress, if the worse comes to the worse, I can just wear that one".
But the more I look at "real" dresses from "real shops", the more I like my dress. But still I feel pretty cheap having bought it in a charity shop, while hunting for books and funky crockery and not at all for a wedding dress.
Then I thought, well, if I feel cheap, I can just make an equivalent donation to some cool charity, like the guy from our parish who goes and digs wells in Tanzania every year (the really deep ones that ensure a permanent supply of clean water for the forseable future and keep water-borne diseases at bay).
You can have a dress made of the brilliance of raindrops caught in the brambles that shimmer
in the sun while you brush your teeth. You can have a dress weaved of the unspoken,
unknown joy even, of a mother whose child will not die but thrive. An ivory dress, the colour
of an old washed out skull come to think of it, and shining as the raindrops
in the brambles on some sunny morning, in the whirlwind of time.
F*ck I'm weird. That was my next thought. Okay, calm down and let's make an effort to think some normal thoughts here. Like what's for lunch. That kind of normal.
My days are few, O fail not,
With thine immortal power,
To hold me that I quail not...
HEY! You bizarro psyche of mine, I said normal thoughts, not launch into a seventeenth century hymn. Maybe there is no hope.
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