There are three things that are always in the eye of the beholder:
- Beauty
- Walks of shame
- Hoodoo
Hoodoo — like good moonshine and my spiritual belief system — is an amalgamation to some, an abomination to others.
I choose to believe the former. This came in handy when we visited Louisiana on our final stop of the lo-class tour.
Voodoo is a religion. But Hoodoo is a practice meant to allow an individual to reign in supernatural forces to improve their lives. It’s about personal power, like setting an intention or meditating but, sometimes, with burning herbs thrown in. There are no Hoodoo priests or priestesses. Just people. I like that.
I bring this up because before our trip started, Justin proposed to me! Yes, marriage! My dowry of goats and pickled yams is in the mail as we speak!
It was awesome and everything it should be and followed by a fancy dinner and excited texts and phone calls to our families and friends. I knew it was coming but his timing was still a surprise and his performance grade-A-you-complete-me romantic.
But there was the issue of the ring.
It’s not that I didn’t love it. I did. In fact, I picked it out.
I didn’t want a new wedding ring so I needed to be involved in the ring-picking process lest I end up with something like a ball and chain wrapped around my ring finger for the rest of my life.
Why did I not want a new ring? Why did I end up going vintage?
Simple. I, like many a Millennial woman, watched the movie “Blood Diamond” in college and was traumatized by it. And I, like many a Millennial woman, believed I could make a difference in this world’s atrocious legacy of being terrible to one another.
The irony is that I probably ended up with a blood diamond but it’s like wearing old fur maybe? The diamonds are already out in the world so… ?
My ring is from the 1940s. I thought about getting a stone other than a diamond and was, in fact, searching for those when I stumbled across the listing for the one I ended up with. I got a weird feeling when I saw it — locked in and sure. I knew it was mine. Immediately.
Everyone I’ve shown it to has said the same. “Wow, that ring is so you.” “That ring is definitely yours.”
But it wasn’t. Someone else had worn it before. Maybe several someone else’s.
Here’s a photo I took while doing some writing work at The Bean Gallery in New Orleans. Because my self worth often is tied to my job performance (I’m working on itttt!), I crammed some freelance into our tour so I could worry for a few days about a deadline. 🙂 My sly attempt to get the ring in this photo is as obvious as this plug for you to follow my Instagram account.
Luckily, we knew a guy in New Orleans.
He’s a friend of ours and many other of our other friends’ “I Know A Guy” Guy. Other realm-y. Memory like a fly trap.
He knew exactly what to do with the ring.
I can’t share the exact process (because I don’t remember and also it felt more sacred than silly and I want to keep it that way), but it involved, among other things, burning sage and sandalwood and a salt water cleanse.
Justin and I took turns holding the ring as the ceremony, we’ll call it, progressed. We thought about who may have worn it before and who may still be emotionally holding on to it — in this life or the next. Don’t worry, I told them in my mind, I will take good care of this. Thank you for taking care of it until now. Thank you for bringing it to me. I will respect its past the same way I will respect you… and him, my love.
The ring looked brighter, felt lighter.
And that’s how we said goodbye to the spirits in my engagement ring. On an 80-degree New Orleans day. On our southern friend’s patio. Beneath a disco ball.
Just as the good lord(s) intended.
