Returning to the Dust

I attended my first Ash Wednesday service tonight and found something very comforting and familiar in the ceremony, in the marking of this time of year, even though it's something I've never done before. I feel like my faith has been under wraps lately, like I have been tucking it away, saving it for later. It hasn't gone away, but it hasn't been on display either, mostly because I haven't been comfortable with the clothes it used to wear, with the stares it drew, with the choices it seemed to imply. It was easier to put it away with Emily Dickinson's life, "over there on the shelf", easier to let it be understated rather than misunderstood. But today I dusted it off and paraded it, naked and unashamed. And it felt good. Good to be connected to tradition outside myself and my questions, good to strip down to the basics just as the pastor preached, good to let myself reflect, both in onto myself and out onto the world. Afterwards, I walked home through the streets where I am usually anonymous, this time with an ashy proclamation on my forehead, and I thought: I may be ready to come out again.