End of an earring?
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| My past life, in tangles. May 2025. |
The other night, when visiting friends at their home, the resident 8-year-old said to another friend (a fellow 40-something mom), "I like your earrings!" My friend's earrings were indeed cool—big, green-and-white, leaf-shaped, dangly fabric affairs offset by her curly bob. My hand went involuntarily to my own modest studs, nowhere near as flashy or comment-worthy, and I noticed with a jolt of surprise that I felt ... jealous. Not jealous of the earrings, not jealous of the attention—jealous of the fact that she was wearing them at all.
I used to be that kind of accessorizer. Somewhere in my college and young adult years, I picked up on earrings as my one type of statement jewelry. No bracelets or necklaces for me; I was earrings or bust. They became my go-to souvenir when traveling, my dopamine hit when window-shopping, my little spot of joy each time I had occasion to match the perfect pair to a special outfit. There, the yellow leather earrings from the art shop in London's Brick Lane. Here, the five-inch mega beads from the thrift store in Pittsburgh. No color was too bright, no shape too unusual, because I, I was a wearer of big earrings. They were my thing.
Until I had kids.
Now in easy reach of grasping baby hands, the big earrings disappeared. I wanted to keep my earlobes intact, after all. But even after my babies outgrew their brief grabbing phases, I left my colorful baubles in the earring case.
It's pandemic, I reasoned. Who am I dressing up for?
Then ... I'm working remotely, I said. What if they get tangled in my headphones?
Then ... I have a new job, I fretted. What impression will I make on my new colleagues?
So the earrings stayed shut away. Until recently, when my kids discovered I have this treasure trove of funky pieces, and their new favorite perk is to pick out Mommy's earrings in the morning.
Here, the apples don't far too fall from the tree, because they gravitate toward the brightest, loudest pieces no matter what I'm wearing or where I'm going. Rarely do they pick anything that matches my outfit or is the appropriate length for my neckline or hairstyle that day. I smile and nod and put on their choices. Then, once everyone has departed for school and daycare, I swap out the set for a closer, tamer fit.
It's this little betrayal, surreptitious and embarrassed, that makes me ponder my true motivations. Do I want to wear big earrings or not? Even if I'm swapping them out, I could easily select a statement set that does match the day's outfit. But I don't, instead defaulting to one of my standbys. This tells me my action does not stem from fashion or practicality. It comes from a lingering doubt that I still am the type of person who would wear such earrings in the first place.
How do you know when you've outgrown an identity? Is there a single moment of certainty, a minor epiphany that yes, you no longer want or prefer this [defining thing], and you calmly leave [defining thing] behind in favor of a new one? Or does it sneak up in the slow way of shedding skin, when over time you recognize you have changed but can't articulate exactly which parts are different, and why?
Also, how do you know for sure if that change is complete? Or final? I hesitate to get rid of my whole second earring case because I can picture a future moment when I will open the case, eyes glowing, ready to adorn myself with the perfect pair. And the very act of picturing that moment—seeing the person I am today re-contextualizing an artifact of my personal past—helps me see myself in brighter light. I am able (and allowed) to seek attention. I am able (and allowed) to take up space. I am able (and allowed) to bring myself joy, if this is indeed what wearing big earrings again will achieve.
Long, dangling story short: Just because those days are behind doesn't mean they're not also before me. I don't know where my earrings, or my decision to wear them, will land. I just know I want to be honest with myself—and all my selves to come.
Prayer #410: O Come Let Us Adorn
I feel like I'm dangling, Love,
as I make my way to you
along the hoop of life
where none of us are clear
where changes start, end, latch.
All I know is that I'm ready to
cluster my lessons
thread my desires
drop some tears
for the stones and backs lost to time
and adorn myself
by clasping
all my true selves close.
Amen.
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Looking to probe your own capacity for change? Check out the section titled "Growth: Why Is Change the Only Constant?" in my book, Amen? Questions for a God I Hope Exists, for prayerful and poetic inspiration.