A year ago, the scene shop was pristine. Now, it has paint splatters on the floor, closets full of supplies and equipment, and sawdust in the cracks. And you know what? I love that space more now than I did when it was perfectly clean and hardly used.
Somehow, the shop is more real now. We are making it ours—making it work for our purposes. While I know the shop will continue to evolve, already it’s been used as intended and wonderful creations have emerged from that room. Am I bothered that the shop floor rang in its first birthday with sawdust and paint instead of candles and cake? Nope. First of all, floors don’t eat cake. Second, you know what I’m saying. The floor is stained. It doesn’t look brand new. It’s no longer pristine.
Turns out, “pristine” is overrated.
As we were stowing paint and lumber and tools after our recent musical, I fell in weird love with that paint-stained floor. I identify with that floor.
I told you it was weird love.
I’m also stained and scarred; I was never pristine perfection, but I do have mirrors. I am aware—the past four years have left their mark on me. That first Thanksgiving, only three months after losing Cooper, I Facetimed with Logan and Cassidy. They couldn’t come home that year (thanks, covid), but we could at least Facetime. When I saw my own face on the screen with theirs, I truly didn’t recognize myself. Logically, of course, I knew it was my own face, but I was startled by my appearance.
The three-plus years since then have softened my gaze and time has allowed some life to return to my face, but I’ve also accepted the differences. The paint splatters and sawdust of grief are obvious; the dark circles and wrinkles, the drawn face and often-hollow eyes are part of me. The mirror is not so startling.
Yes, I look worn. I look older than my classmates. Sadder. Maybe, on some days, broken.
But you know what else?
I’m both stronger and more fragile than I’ve ever been in my life. I don’t look strong, but I’ve learned I’m stronger than I ever imagined I could be—stronger than I ever imagined I’d need to be. I had no choice. I’m rarely angry and am excellent at choosing my battles. Some might say I should choose more battles, but . . . nah. I cry at weird times and I’ve quit apologizing for crying; tears are just part of this roughed-up version of Tonya. I earned them.
I’m learning to love this version of me. Just as I didn’t choose strength, I didn’t choose to be this version, but here we are. I’m comfortable in the scene shop with its weird assortment of tools and supplies, and I’m learning to be comfortable in my own skin—paint splatters and sawdust and wrinkles and perpetual “that’s just my face” face and all.
Seriously. Weird love.
Woods Writes 