Brave Heart

It was the morning of my four-way with our attorneys, which, if you haven't already guessed, is the very definition of the opposite of sexy. I was a nervous wreck getting dressed, and although I hadn't had any trouble deciding what to wear, I felt naked. So I thought I'd bring a talisman or two to give me strength. It’s not that I didn’t think I could get through this day alone, I knew I couldn’t get through this day alone.

I grabbed the little Lego Princess Leia my son had given me off my dresser and found a necklace given to me by a childhood girlfriend. While rooting around in my jewelry box I found the phalanx of saints pendants I'd been given by my Catholic contingency while trying to get pregnant and strung them all on a chord and fastened it around my neck. That reminded me of the little flowered blanket that a random nun in Florida had sewn for me—also in the name of fertility-- and so I shoved that into my attaché. Then I went back to my jewelry box and grabbed every necklace, bracelet or brooch any girlfriend had ever given to me and threw them into a zip-loc bag. I put on a ring from my sister and a bracelet from my parents then remembered the children's book of zen parables that I thought would be a good reminder. Grabbing that, too, I flew downstairs; my bag now comically bulging.

In the kitchen I picked up a fortune cookie fortune that said my luck would change today—no kidding-- and ripped out the back page of prayers from an old church bulletin I found. On the way to get my coat I noticed a small, plastic Cat Woman sitting atop my son's warrior tin of action figures. I grabbed her plus a teeny plastic light saber even though I knew they flew in the face of zen teachings but had no time to debate the merits of letting go versus gearing up for battle. I figured I had a right, on this day, to both.

The bag was ridiculously heavy and to the average joe-on-the-street looked weighted with serious documents. I wondered how many leather briefcases I'd seen going into important meetings were secretly crammed with old Mad Magazines, baseball cards, golf scores and super balls then decided probably not that many. Just before and occasionally throughout our four-way I peeked into my bag and felt relaxed in the company of my support group and the love of my peeps. I listened and took notes. I let my attorney do the talking. I was calm. I felt strong. It was definitely worth the weight.

The second most terrifying day of my divorce was our first meeting with the judge. On my way to Newark I realized I'd left the zip-lock bag of strength and charms at home. Panicking, I looked around for something in the car-- anything to get me thought this day. I saw my son's turquoise terrycloth Pokemon wrist sweatband and put it on, tucking it up under the cuff of my blouse. I was glad that I'd happened to wear long sleeves that day, but would have worn the wristband regardless. Some things are more important that fashion, I thought, as I met the man who would eventually divorce me.

Judge Sarbito was a calm, reasoned man with an excellent command of the room and a well-honed, dry sense of humor. I was glad he was assigned to our case and felt taken care of in a weird way. He'd been a matrimonial judge for 21 years and had presided over 40,000 divorces. To say he'd seen it all was a vast understatement and I wished I could be seated next to him at a dinner party. I was certain that he would have appreciated my turquoise Pokemon wrist sweat band, but resisted the urge to roll up my sleeves and show it to him. We were here to get the ball rolling. We were here to do this thang. We’d all rolled up our sleeves enough.