I was driving home from a workshop yesterday and there was a woman tootling along the cycle path. She had a big sun hat on, that was pinched in at the middle by a long ribbon holding it in place.
Her skirt was bright and colorful, of a size and nature that seemed immediately inconvenient on a bike, but didn’t appear to be inconvenient to her.
Of the things I loved the most, this was my favourite.
Everything that follows now is total fiction. That’s the beautiful thing about moving through the world- we’re never completely sure what effect we are having, who we might move by doing nothing but simply being ourselves.
I imagined her to be a lady that says inappropriate things quite loudly where the people around her are so shocked there’s a moment before they find their laugh.
I think she eats things. Things with chocolate and icing, loads of them, plenty of them.
I think she gets in the sea whenever she wants, however she wants.
And she paints. She definitely paints. Probably naked people that take up whole walls and when her relatives come over, they titter amongst themselves and gasp and play with the seams of their clothing and shuffle their shoes.
She’s a relief really, isn’t she? That to be yourself can be such a rebellion.
I shall care less today, in all the right ways, because of her.
