The Sliver of Possibility

Proof of the yes side of boundaries, in narrative form

This one is so special to me. I wrote it a year or so ago and I have mixed it in with a little more reflection and heartache and discernment.

It was recently my dear friend Maggie’s wedding anniversary. And while I adore her and the relationship she has with her husband, this image calls to mind the specialness of our relationship.

You see, I don’t do weddings.

a uniform for a person ready for anything

First, I have a whole thing about the patriarchy...
And then a thing about my own divorce....
And then the untimely murder of the bride for whom I was the flower girl, and the death of my own flower girl by firearm assisted suicide…

Is it me?

Am I cursed?

It’s… complicated.

The informal conversation that unfolds in the context of a wedding crushes me.

I’m a walking trauma bomb.

“What do you do for a living?” Is a normal, manageable question for other people, but I honestly have no idea how to answer it.

“I’m a yoga teacher?”
“I’m a writer?”
“I do weird things that people pay me for, but also I end up in the right place at the right time to absorb the chaos of the universe. And also I shouldn’t be at weddings - I’m bad luck, or might be?”

Ya know… If you want to know the real truth?

All the finely dressed wedding attendees want is to do is make small talk - spend their cocktail hour in good company, maybe create a business connection, possibly spark a new friendship.

I don’t know how to answer from the shallow end of the pool,
and I don’t drink,
and I’m weird about food.

I don’t make small talk. I’m a Kwinn, a dweller of the deep end, not up for much conversation unless we’re here to improve your diving technique or resuscitate someone, or explore a shipwrecked life.

Knowing all of this and more, Maggie asked the magical question, “I want you to come to my wedding. How can we make it safe?”

Shit kids, if you don’t have a friend who will ask you this question, get you one.

Better yet, be one.