Friday The 13th


“Be careful, oh, my darling, oh, be careful what it takes.
From what I’ve seen so far, the good ones always seem to break.”

We ended up around Yankee Stadium, going uptown before we headed down. The route added more minutes to the clock than was necessary, but lately, I think, who the hell am I to say how long something’s meant to take? 

More than once over the last few months my humanity has been tested and therefore anchored. I’ve sat across eyes that brought me home with every time they saw my soul and my heart in a glass of bourbon. Somehow I found myself on more than one hospital bed with more than one doctor looking at my exposed breast, each finger pointed at the screen with eight images was a reminder that Peter Pan lived in fairytales, but not in me. You figure out how strong you are when the punches keep coming on the same spot, when you have to look in the mirror and admit that you did as much damage to yourself as those on the other end of bullets and hits did.

It grounds though. Each moment when you’re reminded you’re human is a moment when your feet are pulled down from skies and you can move forward on the floor in ways you never could among clouds. The world may no longer be painless, but it’s also not only stagnant or grey anymore. With you coming down, the world increased its gradient — there was color, there were emotions, there were sounds that sang into your ears like lullabies. There is no good or bad emotions down here, there is just feeling. There is just you. 

The bodysuit hugged me as soon as I put it on this morning. Reminiscent of the moments when I’ve had the honor of hugging myself back to safety, back to love. The more deliberate my own steps have been, the more I’m not afraid to step on cracks on the floor or to walk under open ladders. A black cat can bring nothing my way that my own heart hasn’t already drowned me in, if even for seconds. And, look, I’ve survived. 

Friday the 13th has always been a special day in my heart. At first, because my brother’s birthday is on the 13th and the years when it was on a Friday taught me that it’s up to you whether you celebrate the good of every day or whether you let the world dictate that you should expect the worse. Then I started seeing 13s every time I prayed for a subtle sign that I was exactly where I needed to be. For the believers of numerology and life beyond, the idea that I think my mom sent those little nods my way may not seem too far fetched. For others, it may seem like me willing something into existence and self-comforting. Either way, magic, no? 

We get to shift our perspective when the hurt keeps pouring down so that somehow we find the growth in between the punches and the space to exist among the ashes on the floor. We get to choose the love we want and not settle for anything less than one that challenges, bears witness to our past hurt, and sees the potential in our future steps. We get to pour love and let love be poured into us, 

I shimmied on my skirt and tousled my hair this morning before I walked out onto what Friday the 13th had in store for me. For every day that I’ve had to remind myself I’m mortal this season, I’ve also been the recipient of the kind of peace and happiness that knowing we live a short life brings. My mom passed away when she was 44, 19 years older than I am now. Every Friday the 13th we spent together was a day where good things and bad things happened. I get to build a life where good things and bad things coexist among each other, and still, I get to choose growth and love through them all. 

Friday the 13th, a day for dancing in gratitude and singing all of my blessings.