Shedding layers – like removing the clothes of an office job.

Like peeling off a damp, sand-filled swimming suit.

Like leaving a sad relationship with worn ruts: repeat frustration, repeat melancholy, repeat misunderstanding. Lift the needle – new song.

Shedding layers – a name given at birth but never fully understood.

Who is this Jennifer?

There were six of us in my small junior high class. I was Jennifer 4.

Jennifer from Love Story was the seed pod from which we all flew – taking wings toward Anniston and J Lo, toward the 80s and now toward greying versions.

I gave my daughter a “hippie” middle name – a name just for her, a name imbued with the time of her birth and the circumstances of her gestation.

A small precious gift – a word.

We are all words. Each molecule, every freckle. From the intestine to the hippocampus.

And every word can be as holy as the next. Rubber tire as full as grace as luminous dusk.

If we let it.

Coming toward the next name, the next thing, the next shape.

Moving down my road with its boulders and pebbles, its vistas and dumpsters.

Each one a holy word. Each one an opportunity to pause – name it – rename it – sit.

And move on.



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