I have been known by many names throughout my life. One of my all-time favorites was given to me by a classmate of my youngest son. Struggling to think of my name and needing to get my attention, he blurted out “Mrs. Liam’s Mom.” My dad calls me “L.J.” (first and middle initials) and “middle kiddle.” I’ve noticed I call myself “Bradley” when talking to myself. And the checkout persons and baggers at my Kroger call me “The Denim Lady,” thanks to my upcycled reusable bags.
I started making these in 2014 (and blogged a little about them). Most of the ones I made seven years ago are still in use – less because of my skills and more a testament to the resilience of denim. I stopped carrying these when stores asked customers not to use them during the peak of the pandemic. Today was the first time I’ve taken them into Kroger for at least a year and the bag boy – the one who sees me every week – said, “Hey! Haven’t seen you in a while. Welcome back!”
I left thinking how nice it is to be known and laughed at my invisibility without my signature bags. Driving home, my mind wandered down a mini rabbit hole, thinking about how upcycling and art were intertwined with my identity, but not in the ways they used to be. I’m different now, but can’t say yet if what’s different about me is temporary or part of an ongoing shift in who I am becoming. My “Plant Again” post from a few days ago is still rattling around in my head. Paired with this post, I have to wonder if my lack of growth has something to do with the limitations imposed by old ideas of who I am or who I’m supposed to be. If I’m still carrying things (baggage anyone?) from seven years ago, what room does that leave for a new identity?
Even identities I’ll never lose – for example “Mom” – will shift numerous times, as my boys grow and their needs shift, and as I grow and reclaim some very important non-Mom identities. It’s uncomfortable, to say the least, all this becoming we do throughout our lives. A friend of mine used to compare the mess of change to “the goo” caterpillars dissolve into before they become butterflies. Unfortunately, I think I’ve been wiping my goo off, because I didn’t recognize it as essential to the process, just uncomfortable – and gross! But I’m learning the goo doesn’t give up. It seems determined to come back, again and again, until I let the old Leah fully dissolve and the new one be revealed.
Embracing the suck. Enduring the goo. And planting more seeds. This summer is anything but boring.