I had a plan this weekend.  My experience is that these are dangerous words, and this weekend’s result was no different.

I thought that the plan was simple.  For weeks, I have been culling my closet for items that could have  a better, more useful home.  This was not a general pull and pitch — I was gathering clothing to go to the group Suited for Change, an organization of women who lift up other women by providing them with office-suitable clothing at the moment they most need it, the moment when they take that step from recovery of any kind into the world of work.  I knew that I had quite a few things to share — clothing from old versions of my self, rarely worn and still in style; coats, and shoes and handbags, all in the larger sizes their Internet site says that they so desperately need.

I had already pulled the coats from the back of the storage closet. One of them was the red coat you see in this picture.  I’ll get to the picture in a moment, but right now, I want to talk about the coat.  It isn’t really anything special, just a run-of-the-mill red car coat with a hood, warm enough for all but a month or so of a typical Washington winter.  It had had 5 or six years of wear, but seemed no worse for it (despite the one missing button).   And yet, it had languished in the back of that storage closet for two years without use.  I knew that it should go on the pile.  I knew that someone else could use it — I have more than enough coats at every utility level, in every color I love.

I tried to put this old coat on the pile.  I really did.  And I failed.  And it is the fault of that picture, and all that it says to me every time I look at it.

Okay, let’s look at the picture.  The photographer who takes my professional photos was not impressed with it, and granted, his portrait of me is more exquisite, more refined, and definitely more work-appropriate, no matter which of my many paths I am following.  His work of art currently graces my new ID card at the seminary as well as my recordings and my spiritual direction handouts.  But for some reason, it is always this picture that I choose when asked for an image to go along with something more personal, like an article that I have written or a notice for a retreat or gathering where I am a speaker.

No, it is not the quality of the picture that draws me, it is the qualities captured by the picture.  For the last 12 months, as I have begun to encounter the depth at which my soul had not healed from the events of the last six years in my life, this picture became my most tangible reminder of what a happy, carefree version of my self looked like. Here I was, before the surgery.  Here I was, after a long musical rehearsal during the Advent season.  Here I was, holding my beloved Gracie as she waited to have her picture taken with Santa.  Here I was, exhausted, and, knowing the experience of those particular “festival choir” rehearsals, I was probably angry about something. But at the sight of those I loved, and the lights and the festive setting, suddenly I was free and laughing, and full of joy.  It was a good, full day of living, with all life’s ups and downs, all captured in a moment, a piece of digital amber for the ages.  Seeing it helps me experience all that again, to remember the incarnation of what was and the hope for what can be.

Clearly, without knowing it, I have used this picture now as a visio divina, a focal point for the act of remembering and reconnecting, as I work to gather  the parts of myself and my life that I thought were long gone.  And yes, I know that there is no going “back” — my beloved Gracie is gone and so many other things have changed, but there are still important pieces to be gathered.  There are shards to be honored and cataloged, according to the cosmological midrash of the Jewish teacher, Rabbi Isaac Luria of Safed, known as the Ari (1534-1572).  There are shadows to be embraced, according to the work of psychologist Carl Jung.  Whether I talk about shards of light, as would Ari, or archetypes, shadows and individuation, as would Jung, the goal is the same — wholeness.  And this picture, this frozen moment in time, reminds me that I once knew what that wholeness felt like.

It seems that all these hopes and dreams can be found now in the physical presence of a slightly worn but deeply loved red coat, a coat that went to the cleaners for new buttons and a spruce-up instead of into the donation bag and on to a new home.  I know; that person may have needed it more.  Or did they?  I’m clearly not done with what the coat has to teach me.  I have not looked as deeply as I can into the eyes of this other Susan, laughing, sporting the color red and a patterned scarf. I have not seen deeply enough into this Susan who was so comfortable in her skin and so very comfortable in her life.  Until I can remember how that feels, the coat will stay with me.

September is a month of remembrances for me, both bittersweet and joyful, septembrances, I like to call them.  That means it is also a month when I evaluate and re-evaluate, clean out closets of the mind and the house, and in general, take stock.  It is, for me, kind of the new year and a birthday all rolled into one. Next year, probably around this time, I know that I will make another plan for another weekend.  I will gather another pile of  things to send out into the world.  Who knows, maybe, by then, I will share the magic of my red coat with someone new.  Right now, though, school is still in session.