My Patched Jeans

A few years back, when ripped jeans were becoming the rage, I bought a pair. Very baggy, a few strategically ripped parts and folded bottoms. They were a very light denim colour and rode low on my hips. They were the most comfortable pants I owned. Now these jeans were everything an older gal like me was not supposed to wear. But I loved them. Now the problem with prestressed pants is that they wear out faster. The rips grow larger and the stressed parts become holes. After a few years I brought them into my favourite seamstress Anna and had her patch them. Well, in time, those fixes began to wear as well. Soon there were long gashes in the pants and it seemed like every time I wore them they ripped more. The time came when I couldn’t wear them anymore for fear of one day exposing a body part no one would want to see. I put them away at the back of the closet. I couldn’t wear them but I couldn’t part with them.

Often in life it seems as if I employed those same tactics as those of the jeans. Whether it was people or jobs or circumstances, I fell in love, saw the end nearing, tried to save it and finally put it on a shelf, unwilling to make the break and throw it away. As a young woman I stayed in relationships too long. I remained friends with people who only ever put their own needs first. I stayed in work circumstances when it would have been best to walk away. All because they fed into my comfort. I am not one to be very social, and yet I need people. There is a tightrope dance I do in order to satisfy my conflicting needs. While I need solitude and much prefer to be alone, there is a part of me that longs for adventure. I crave routine and stability yet nothing calls me more than a life of a nomad. My entire life has been an internal struggle between security and freedom. Often I chose security, not for myself but for others.

As a child and then a young woman, I was pretty scattered. From the outside looking in. What people saw was an inconsistent and flighty girl. I lived life on a whim. Magical freedom. Always broke, living day to day. Not knowing what the future would bring and not caring. I was a bit of a hedonist, always looking for fun. The next thrill. Yet I was overwhelmed when someone wanted to keep me in their life. I was afraid of marriage because it was harder to leave. My husband understood the only thing that would keep me with him was marriage. And it did. Until he died. I was forced to work things out with him over the years. It was hard. But I think it was hardest for him. There is a song by 38 Special that I think became a rulebook for my husband.

“Hold on loosely, but don’t let go. If you cling too tightly, you’re gonna lose control. Your baby needs someone to believe in, but a whole lot of space to breathe in” 38 Special 1981

Becoming a Mom was the first big thing that made me crave stability. But not for me. For her. Having my children taught me the most important lessons in life. They are not the same and each one brings not only a unique perspective, but requires an entirely different approach to raising them. A first glimpse into the psychology of people. In so many ways I felt the need to be grounded and responsible for my kids, yet I needed them to have the freedom I valued. The permission to try and fail, or succeed. The courage to go out into the world knowing they had a safety net in me. Its not just about money. Bailing them out. It is about listening and letting them blow off steam. Being the safe place when the world shits on them. When my husband died, I felt grief needed to be put on hold. All of my children were grieving in a way I could never imagine. My Dad lived to 89. My Mom to 87. My kids were young adults when their Dad died. I couldn’t relate. But that is when they realized what their Dad had gone through. He lost his father when he was 28. Mind you, they couldn’t understand what I felt. Losing the man who made me nuts, daily, but was the one constant in my life. The one person who accepted me warts and all. As my kids healed, I started to grieve. Once again I had put something on the shelf. My grief

When I was young, money was scarce. We had few clothes and we took care of our clothes. Ripped jeans were decorated. I spent many hours patching pants and then embroidering flowers and suns and stars, all to cover the tears. They became works of art. Something that was useful, beautiful and unique. I kept things out of need. My few possessions made life beautiful but also practical and carefree. Over the years I have surrounded myself with things that bring me both peace and anxiety. Possessions do that to us. Part of me wants to hold on to the life I created for my kids. To hold their past and to give them comfort as they make their way in the world. Part of me wants that space for the grandkids. Sleepovers. The hot tub. Weiner roasts over the firepit. Comfort in the place they always knew me to be. But I know it isn’t what my kids want. They will go where I am. Be happy if I am happy. Build their own comfort for their families. Perhaps it is time for me to move forward in life. Let go of that which doesn’t serve me. Clear out the clutter. Empty the shelves. Physically and metaphorically. I think I have finally learned that letting go is an important path to the peace and freedom I felt as a young woman. I had the words “Let It Go” tattooed on my wrist years ago. I think its taken this long to realize the power of those words. But not everything needs to go. Like my ripped jeans. Today I will take them off the shelf and patch them and wear them. If only to remind me that no matter where I go, or what I do, peace and contentment are all that matter.