I hear all the time about messages from the universe. Over the last couple of years, I’ve been getting back to listening to them. Call them what you like. Gut feeling, instinct, ridiculous crazy woo. Sometimes they are a gentle whisper. So gentle, I need the same freaking thing to happen three times over before I even start to understand when I am off track.
Sometimes it’s a sledgehammer. Tonight, I got a sledgehammer. I opened my wardrobe door and the rail had collapsed. My carefully curated clothes were slumped in a tangled heap on the floor. The shelf above the rail bowed dangerously.
I picked my clothes up and headed to the empty(ish) wardrobe in the guest room and started to hang them. Then I heard it. The voice from the universe. Leave the past behind, it said. I frowned. Partially because, after years of botoxing I’ve given it up and I can actually frown. Partially because I’ve spent the better part of two years doing exactly that. Left my job, sold my flat, moved states. Decided how I want to look and culled and culled and culled. I thought I was done with leaving things behind. Maybe even the Botox.
But as I hung my clothes back up, I realised there were still a significant number of things – dresses and jackets in particular – that belonged to my old vanilla life. It was time to let go. They are already in a plastic bag in the carport on their way to the local op shop. It’s important that the world that awaits me knows who I am. So, I’d better look like me. Hot pink leather boots (new but Australian made) and a silver rubber jacket (snaffled from an op shop) are more my style these days.
Thanks again for the message universe. I’ll even forgive you for the theatrics. But I’m still not sure about the Botox.