Stripped of every stitch of clothing and bereft of any sartorial armor save for a set of spectacles and strategically placed pillow, it is not the nakedness of the body that challenges me, but the nudity of the soul, laid bare for all to see, laid vulnerable and prone and impossibly open when once it was impenetrable. I do not hide behind suit and tie, I do not mask my unruly madness with pomades or product. No cloud of cologne transports me to safe distance, no flash of beaded embellishment distracts enough to allow for exit or escape. The veneer of perfection is like a mirror that cuts both ways: a tale I tell myself, a tale I tell the world.
“If you’re going to reveal yourself, reveal yourself!”
Snappy headlines, snippy attitude, and confrontational gaze.
The biggest risk in life is making oneself vulnerable, and it takes more strength and power to do that than I can usually muster. It’s been easier to shed clothing, to make an exhibitionist statement and bluster my way out of things. The image charges into the crowded room and disarms before I even have to step a foot inside. It’s worked surprisingly well, outwardly. And maybe even a bit inwardly as well. There’s something to be said for faking it until you make it.
Now it’s time to turn inside and see if we can’t renovate some of the interior as well. The bones are there. The foundation is sound. A few wrinkles and cracks are the signs of a life well-lived. There is still work to be done.
