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The Black Dress That Taught Me About Love
Revisiting lessons learned from a ripped hem
Recently, I attended my father’s funeral and wore a black dress.
I felt uncomfortably hot in my black funeral dress and remembered the black dress from years ago that taught me about love. It was a lesson and application that was difficult to practice with my father but one that I learned by trial and error and with a focus on myself (not expecting anything in return).
Over the past two weeks, I gave myself healing space to process my father’s passing and be a support to my siblings. Through it all and despite a traumatic childhood, when we gathered for our father’s final farewell, I had peace, acceptance, and love in my heart.
The perfect dress
I once had a favored black jersey dress that was perfect for work. It was my go-to dress. It never needed ironing; wearing it was like being clothed in a newborn’s skin. It was a de-stressor, like wearing therapy.
Wearing this dress made the world a less harsh place
Eventually, I noticed that a portion of the hem was ripping. I ignored the tearing and wore it a few times, each time telling myself, “Remember to fix that hem.” I washed it and wore it again, forgetting that hem.
An unfortunate discovery and forgotten fix
One day, upon arrival at work, just as the morning bell was about to ring for a packed day, I noticed the entire hem had ripped. I had no time to hem it, no thread or needle anyway, and no time to go to the store to buy the tools needed for the necessary repair work.
Quickly scouring my desk, I grabbed the stapler and stapled the entire hem. It worked so well that I left it stapled and wore it twice more before doing the traditional needle and thread job.
Lessons in the dress
The dress is long gone now, but not the memory of how I felt in it.
That dress defines what love should be like.
Love should be perfect for work and play. It should fit well and caress us gently amid busy and ragged lives.
