I think I might have Annie Clark’s hands
Things keep falling from my walls. Three days ago it was a framed print of cows in a field of fog that I took in the Azores. Yesterday morning, the calendar I keep above my dresser fell behind it. Yesterday afternoon, when I came home, one side of my mirror had dropped. Last night in the dark before bed, I heard something else fall. In the morning I opened my eyes and found all of my coats, once on a hook, laying on the floor.
Twice in the last two days the meaning of my name has come up. Worthy of love. Deserving to be loved. I have heard it since I was little. You were born, you were named, to be loved. Sometimes it has felt like a joke the world made, that this would be my name.
The foundation around me is casting things off. I keep picking up what is dropped and putting it safely in boxes. Okay, this doesn’t belong anymore. Put it away.
But this is not about moving on or coincidences or packing up or falling down. I thought it was for the last three days. This has actually been a matter of realizing that whatever comes crashing down, I am still solid ground. That nothing is a symbol for a life. Not my name, not the coincidence of things falling down as my life takes some painful turns.
We could look for answers in everything. In our names, in our horoscopes, in the way something happens when we need it to the least or the most. Or we could look to ourselves and the simple fact that we all get a name, we were all born on a day, we all live through our lives as they unfold, and none of it means we are destined to be one way forever.
My mother named me Amanda the moment she saw me. But, the less-told story is this: I was supposed to be Grace.
Things can keep falling down. I’ll pick them up or put them back.
this is god-light coming through the storm-clouds
– When comments are better than the article, Atlantic edition (“The Cheapest Generation: Why Millennials aren’t buying cars or houses, and what that means for the economy”)