We all wear uniforms, whether seen or unseen, we adopt our roles and responsibilities. Some are chosen by us, some for us. I wear many uniforms, and each are woven into the fabric of my life.
My work uniform is crafted from creativity, a rich palette of vibrant colour and texture. It is edged with leadership and trust and embellished in belief, encouragement and praise. This uniform is bold and strong with a soft lining, heavy enough to help carry the pressure of the workload of my charges yet comfortable enough to care and guide. It is decorated with ideas and inspiration, imagination and insight. It is well worn, frayed at the edges from loving and learning, marked with experimentation and fun and printed with achievement.
My mother uniform is soft and warm, it is big enough to wrap around my babies and protect them from harm. It sometimes feels ragged and in need of attention, yet over the years this uniform has moulded to my body and stitched itself into my heart. It has large pockets to carry memories and laughter, and is woven with hopes and dreams. This uniform is a garment in progress, and will never be completed as long as I can wear it. This uniform is wet from splashing in puddles, sandy from playing at the beach and is beaded with cuddles.
My daughter uniform is uncomfortable, it needs wearing in more but has not really been given the chance for a while. It can feel stiff and starched, too smooth and formal to crumple in the non existent catch ups and spa days. I do not feel at home in this uniform like I should, even though it is my oldest. I wish it fitted better and felt softer. Some parts are damaged, when care wasn’t taken in dressing me, some parts are heavy with richly textured layers that may never be seen, some hidden forever. It is still pierced with pins along its unfinished edges, it’s old lining no longer matches the outer layer and it is always at risk of ripping.
My friend uniform is changeable, it has concealed pockets and flaps full of sparkle and fun, if you know where to find them. I’ll let you stitch your name on it and keep it there forever if I can stitch mine on yours. Its sleeves are long for hugs and dancing, its pockets full of tea and Prosecco. This uniform takes careful handling, because it’s a delicate one built on trust. Sometimes the zips conceals me, other times I’ll rip it off and show you the lining, but only when I trust you.
Only his hands are adept at peeling off all my uniforms, freeing me from their layers to reveal the one I wear just for him.
This one is gilded in trust and lust, embellished with the rich tapestry of our lives. It flows and wraps around me, protecting me. It feels as soft as a second skin yet is so light and sheer, revealing all to him as he embroiders his love all over it and me. This uniform is bejewelled with intimacy, authenticity and vulnerability, yet is as strong as armour. When the others have been hung up for the day, I slip into this one and feel free. We made this uniform together, the one he rips off in passion then carefully knits back together, strengthening the fibres. We treasure this garment, this creation of ours. In this uniform I am his.
Click the link to see who else is having a Wicked Wednesday –