On Taking a Knee

Originally posted to another of my many blogs, on October 13, 2017.  Today, my friend Martha told me about the basketball team at Old Miss kneeling in protest of pro-Confederate groups on campus this past weekend.  It seems timely still. Unfortunately.

I took a knee today, just to tie my shoe.

Not folding from the waist as I had admired the cheerleaders doing at a football game in 1975 as I sat and sweated in my purple wool band uniform and fuzzy white shako, waiting for our director to lift his baton and lead us in “On Wisconsin” as the flexible cheerleaders bounced in their snuggly-tied shoes, because I knew that bending my knees was better for my back and that I could bend at the waist all day long and still not be popular.

I took a knee today to clean the litter box.

Cat #1 seemed to understand the nasty nature of my chore, and waited patiently as I scooped and threw away her leavings, thoroughly washed my hands, made a cup of tea and sat down to read so she could climb on my lap.  Cat #2 barely noticed me working as she slid by on her way to her morning perch in my bedroom window to study her birds.  I thought of the boys at the long-ago Bar Mitzvah party who threw their napkins at me as they ran by, one of them laughing as he said, “Give it to the maid,” and I wanted to shout back, “I’m with the caterer,” and came home and cried because I didn’t want to be a maid, I was in grad school dammit and now here I am scooping poop into a plastic grocery bag. 

I took a knee today to pick up spilled pistachios.

I actually took two knees and one hand to balance, one hand to scoop up the nuts.  I had poured pistachios into a bowl for Olive, and gave her another bowl for the shells she loved to crack open all by her 3-year-old self, but she insisted on keeping the nearly-full bag on the footstool beside us as we read and cracked and ate pistachios, one for me, three for her.  I wish I had vacuumed before she came over that afternoon and before the bag took a tumble; I watched a few cat hairs go into the bag along with the pistachios.  “Oh no,“ I said, “cat hair!”  Olive kept on scooping and said, “It’s OK, Mimi, a little cat hair never hurt anyone” and I wondered how many times in her little life someone has told her “a little blank never hurt anyone.”

It’s good to take a knee and a breather after an uphill climb on a beautiful fall hike.  Kurt Vonnegut said, “…I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, ‘If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.’”  I like to think he would be a big advocate of taking a knee.

It’s good to take a knee in the presence of something holy.

It’s good to take a knee and think on the common bonds of our humanness, the struggles we understand but do not suffer, the peace we all want.

It’s no good to go around with an untied shoe or a litter box full of poop or pistachios all over the floor. 

It’s no good to close my eyes to the messy reality of my house or the world, to hope that my shoelaces will tie themselves and that all people will treat all people with respect and love.

I take a knee and acknowledge the mess around me; I honor the mess that comes from owning a home (and sharing it with pets).  I honor the pistachios we eat, a child who loves me and shoes on my feet.  I acknowledge the mess we find ourselves in as a nation and honor the great hope and possibility that exists in the simple act of listening to our brothers and sisters. 

And when I take a knee, it’s good to have someone right there beside me -- cat or 3-year-old -- acknowledging that my work is important. It means something, this low-level work.
It’s prayer. 

Because a little time on a knee never hurt anyone.

Peace.

The Pen

In my writing circle, we were asked to consider where, when, how, etc. we write.  So I decided to write about my pens.  This was originally from September, 2017. 

I belong to a regular small-town family.  We live in a regular house and have regular lovely children and grandchildren.  We love birthday parties and Taco Tuesdays.  We usually go to Mass on Saturday nights then come home to pizza and morally questionable TV shows.  See? Regular.

But Clay is what they call a "worldwide expert" in his field, and travels the world keeping people happy and doing something important to great big engines that I couldn't begin to explain or understand.  He is gone from home for weeks at a time, usually in remote areas of the world:  the Australian Outback, mountaintops in Indonesia and the literal middle of nowhere Siberia.  We installed a huge map of the world in our living room so we'll always understand just where he is, and our home is decorated with  interesting things from his travels.  Delicate tea sets from Japan and China.  Happy little Buddhas and figures of Ganesha.  A candle holder from Sweden, a Union Jack teacup, a vuvuzela, a boomerang.  Many sets of Russian nesting dolls.  Scarves, kimonos, jewelry, maps, books.  

Many years ago, I told him I didn't need him to bring me anything -- his return was gift enough, plus I am rotten at dusting all the knickknacks.  So he started to bring me yarn.  "Really useful," he said.  First was Russian yarn, which we found after deciphering the label was actually made in China.  Lovely Japanese yarn I can buy more cheaply at my favorite shop in Indianapolis.  When he told me the story of how his taxi driver guided him through the sketchy back alleys of Pune, India to buy some yarn from the driver's cousin, I said no more yarn (even though the story was a good one, filled with good people and halfway good yarn).

But he seemed desperate to bring me something, perhaps in restitution for all the months of our marriage that he's been gone, for the holidays and family gatherings he's missed.  Maybe for the time I had to retrieve our middle child from a party after a 2 AM call from the sheriff.

So now he brings me pens.  Pens labeled with Cyrillic alphabets, pens with crowns on top, pens that switch from red to blue to black to pencil, depending upon how you hold them.  Short little pens that extend to regular length at the flick of your wrist.  Pens with fine, fine tips, because he know those are my favorite.
Those fine tip pens allow me to write fast.  They let my hand and brain keep closer pursuit in the race to get my words only paper.

So I write.  Fast little poems for friend's birthdays, or to commemorate their addiction to Peeps.  My novel that sits stagnant in a notebook as well as in a file on my computer.  Pages and pages of journal entries on my life as a mom, mimi and wife who has struggled to be joyful and at peace in a marriage when I am often alone, but yet never alone as long as I have a pen.

Peace.

Being Brave

Today a friend told me of her bravery. 

Of course, she didn't use the term "bravery"; she is a good, kind, smart and humble friend.

She told me about standing up and speaking out on an issue we both believe in resolutely.
She told me of the counter arguments she suffered.
She labeled herself "that mom."
I am so proud of her, and seriously disappointed in myself.

I used to be "that mom." 
Then I was "that woman," and recently "that liberal," "that feminist" and "that snowflake."

But too many wallopings by those who view life differently than I do (read: bullies with extremely poor grammar skills and limited vocabularies who type whatever first comes to their minds and hit "send" without thought to perception or inference - i.e., they hurt my feelings) made me jump down off my soapbox, retreat, and limit my social media interactions to pretty pictures of my knitting, grandchildren, books and baked goods on Instagram.  With a few sly slams in the comments sections of friends' Facebook posts just to keep my toes in the water.