Ruby

Let the clocks be reset and the pendulums held
‘Cause there’s nothing at all, ‘cept the space in between
Finding out what you’re called, and repeating your name

Ruby, Ruby, Ruby, Ruby

Ruby, by the kaiser chiefs

“I’m ready to cut my hair,” I messaged my close friends group chat toward the end of my first of three overseas musical marathons in 2023.

It’s silly how monumental the decision felt. That it bore announcing at all. (But I have a feeling many women will understand implicitly.)

I joked about it taking two years after my divorce to reach the point of the cliché post-breakup haircut. But even as I said it, I knew that the physical change I craved wasn’t just about separating my current self from the wife in me that went through so much fear, devastation, and heartache.

I had finally done enough healing that I was also ready to break away from the girl who removed harmless piercings to conform and please authority figures, the devout Christian who suppressed so much of herself and her own needs to earn her value, and the young woman who clung to beauty standards that had never, and would never serve her.

“I also want to re-pierce my nose,” I added, resolutely. “Not the nostril this time, the septum. That was what I really wanted back then, anyway.”

I can’t help but smile about the timing of these seemingly small decisions that felt more like powerful personal revelations. In the month leading up to this point, I’d seen more than 40 artists and bands (some of them several times) at a total of 14 concerts and one festival, spread across four countries, four American states and three Canadian provinces. Largely solo, but almost never alone, as it turns out. All while taking just 2 days off work, mind you.

After a lifetime of questioning myself, often ignoring my own instincts, there’s something deeply validating about realizing that I finally know myself well enough to know what I need. And more importantly, that I’m actually honouring those needs.

Strong and effective stuff, that musical medicine!

It’s funny. So, so much about the musical marathon, minus the music itself (but certainly including many aspects of the shows, if I’m being honest) was hectic, stressful, overstimulating, uncomfortable, and exhausting.

Still, the net impact was remarkable. I arrived back in Canada with my mind eased, my heart filled, my soul replenished, my creative spirit rekindled and my hopes renewed.

Have I ever been so simply and genuinely happy?

There had been an energetic shift, and I wasn’t about to ignore it. The moment the desire for change struck, it was a compulsion. An affirmation that I was ready to close certain chapters. To fully move forward and step not just into a new chapter, but perhaps a new book altogether, with the full realization that I’m really going to be ok.

Maybe even a lot more than ok.

I got 8 inches lobbed off at the first opportunity, and the weight of the burden I was relieved of was magnitudes beyond that of the fine blonde strands scattered on the floor. But when I went in for the piercing, I found myself waffling. Maybe I should just get the nostril done after all? Old habits die hard, I guess.

“I think you’re a rockstar and you deserve to express yourself however you want, because it’s for you,” countered my ever-supportive friend, Michelle.

“Also, you should name your rockstar self,” she added. “I just named mine (inspired by YOU). And she’s my fucking favourite! Maybe Brooke is nervous to get the septum and be edgy, but what about Lilac Riot Girl or Strawberry Rebel?”

“So you’re saying I need a Sasha Fierce, huh?” I asked, with a growing smile.

No sooner had I finished typing when I felt her rushing forward, as if to say, “I’m right here, dammit. ‘Bout time you noticed.”

“Exactly! She’s the side of you that is begging to come out,” Michelle went on. “Let her. Give her air. I’m getting to discover and define a new person without the baggage I carry as myself. Because I’ve limited myself greatly. But the personas don’t have the same limitations we put on ourselves. And then we finally realize, it’s just been us all along. But the persona gives us the creative freedom of expression that we need at the time.”

“So, who is your Sasha Fierce?” she concluded.

Ruby.

It came through so clear, so fast.

“I think her name is Ruby,” I wrote, feeling my throat constrict.

You mean to tell me this b has really taken a scriptural reference that used to hold so much meaning for me when I struggled with my worth in the confines of faith, and subverted it to affirm her own?

Fuck, I love her already.

Ruby River, she insisted.

I get it.

A brook(e) is quiet, shallow, slow-moving, easily forded. It dries up quickly without outside sources to fill it.

A river rages, often loud and deep. It takes up the space it needs, never shy to overflow its banks when full to bursting. It is not easily crossed. It carves out a new path when it needs to.

I could certainly stand to have more River in my life, sometimes.

Lead on, Ruby River. Lead on!