Boobs, golf balls, and nonviolence

I mentioned in the Wedding Chicken that the thing about my sister’s dress and boobs (a hard thing which turned into a good thing) needed its own post. I sincerely hope she doesn’t kill me if she ever reads this (though it’s not really about her boobs at all, I swear!)

In the months before the wedding I was, shall we say, focused on (read: obsessed with) the visuals. What should the color scheme be? How would the look come together? There may have been a mood-board.

My dress was made by a super awesome designer here in Seattle, who also made the ties that all the men were going to wear, and my sister’s (maid of honor) dress. The ties and my sister’s dress were a hand-dyed green and gold silk, a deep warm shade to complement the copper walls in the wedding hall. The flowers were ordered to match.

Since my sister doesn’t live in Seattle, she sent her measurements to the designer (who has made lots of long-distance dresses in the past).

A month or so before the wedding, she received her dress. It didn’t fit in the boobs. Like, really comically, un-wear-ably didn’t fit. It wasn’t just that it was the wrong size, oh no, it somehow also managed to be the wrong shape.

A few weeks go by, and she receives version two of the dress. It still doesn’t fit, but in a totally different way. Again, completely un-wear-able. She emails me to let me know, and sends it back for a third try. (Clearly cutting it really close at this point.)

My honest, unedited, ungraceful gut reaction to getting this news:

OMG HER STUPID BOOBS ARE GOING TO RUIN MY BEAUTIFUL WEDDING.

Immediately followed by my second reaction:

What an awful thing to think, I shouldn’t be thinking that. A good person wouldn’t care about this.

And a few years ago, that’s where I would have stopped–with a sense of shame for feeling that initial feeling. I’d barrel headfirst into squelching it, almost unconsciously.

When I talked to my sister I would have said something like this:

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

Only I would have said it through clenched teeth. It would have been something I thought I should say, while trying my hardest to tamp down my real feelings.

It probably wouldn’t have been very believable, especially to someone who knows me well.

It would have been sort of passive-aggressive. (Unintentionally, for sure, but still.)

It definitely would have been me putting my stuff onto my sister.

Luckily, I’ve spent the the past I-don’t-know-how-many years navel-gazing working on my stuff, so the reality went like this instead:

1. OMG HER STUPID BOOBS ARE GOING TO RUIN MY BEAUTIFUL WEDDING.
2. What an awful thing to think, I shouldn’t care about this.
3. Hey, wait a minute, I am totally allowed to care about this.

And it was the allowing that opened everything up.

I didn’t have to let go of the disappointment or frustration. I didn’t have to get over it, or talk myself out of it. I totally got to be sad and irritated that my wedding wouldn’t look how I wanted it to look.

All that emotion was there. It’s just that I also saw it for what it was: a little tiny golf ball in a wide open, lush landscape.

And what was there beyond the golf ball, in that wide open landscape?

Huge love for my sister. A genuine desire to have her standing next to me when I got married. An understanding that it didn’t matter one bit what she was wearing.

This was a deeper, wider, fuller truth. But it didn’t have to replace the disappointment. I didn’t have to choose one feeling or the other. There’s plenty of room within me for both.

So when I talked to my sister, I said this:

“I hope the dress works out but seriously, I don’t care what you wear. All that matters is that you’re standing next to me when I get married.”

And it was pure truth. It was easy to believe, because I said it clearly and strongly without hesitation. I meant every word.

The third version of the dress didn’t end up fitting, and it really didn’t matter.

Neither of us stressed about it, and the wedding was beautiful anyway. In fact, as I have said before it was more perfect for its imperfections.

But I can still have my little golf ball and keep it in my pocket.

Heck, I can even pull it out to fondle it on occasion (like, seriously, did I mention the hand-dyed organic silk… it freaking matched the ties.)

If I had pretended it wasn’t there, that’s what would have led to yuckiness with my sister. Instead I got to go quickly to the core of things. I got peace and ease in my relationship with my sister, who is enormously important to me.

There can be no compassion without acceptance.

Not just of others, but of everything within us.

Nonviolence starts with ourselves.

(It has to, it really doesn’t work otherwise.)

Related posts:
Backwards, Upside-down and Sideways
Even Sneakier
Giant Wedding Chicken