Define freedom

I almost opted out of this writing prompt. To attempt to define "freedom" seems oxymoronic.

But, clear as a bell, something came to mind.

Access.

To me, freedom is having access. All us creatures are born with biological imperatives. And, like barnacles, various desires attach to us as we live and breathe. We convert thoughts and feelings into intentions and dreams.

But all of it has little to no meaning without an uncluttered path between point A and point B whether it be a synapse in the brain or wheelchair access or a heart unfettered by prejudice.

Next time you feel your freedom constrained, next time you find yourself judging someone else for (not) doing something, consider access. If you can identify what is blocking the path, for you and for others, I believe it will take all of us one step closer to ultimate freedom.

Favorite poem

I discovered last night, after posting, that there's a website devoted to NaBloPoMo. And there are suggested daily writing prompts. Which is handy because I was wondering what the heck I was going to write about everyday.

Today's prompt is to write about your favorite poem. And if you don't have one, to write about why.

My earliest full memory of a poem is Casey At The Bat. I was in fourth grade, or maybe sixth, and our class had to memorize the poem and recite it during a school assembly. I did not enjoy the exercise. Nor did I connect with the material. But, there were sparks. Which is why I remember it so clearly.

I love taking part in choral expression. I've known this about myself in respect to singing, but until now, I didn't realize the same goes for recitation. The idea extends itself and I recognize my affection for chanting in a group.

In the thirty plus years since Casey At The Bat touched my life, I have not sought out poetry, for the most part. But, poems (and poets) have found me.

One such poem is Wild Geese, by Mary Oliver. I tend to like poems, songs and non-fiction writing that carry on its shoulders the mantle of the natural world. It's a vital point of arrival and departure. Of connection.

Wild Geese by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting--
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

Washing the kitchen floor

I washed the kitchen floor this weekend for the first time in a long time. The last time was over a year ago, I'm sure.

(I am not a "good housekeeper". When I was a kid in the 1970s, my mom had a subscription to "Good Housekeeping" magazine. I remember feeling derisive about the whole idea of "good housekeeping" from a fairly young age. Things are different now.)

My mom spent some time with us in our place on Sargent Street after Gem was born. She was a huge help in every way. One of the things she did was get down on her hands and knees and wash all the floors with a washcloth.

Honestly, it comes as a shock to me often enough, so it will likely shock others how often I don't think of the obvious. My understanding of the practical world is a series of blind spots waiting to be filled in by images others present to me.

(I am a very intuitive person and tend to "see" things via connections invisible to the naked eye.)

Until I saw my mom in my apartment wiping down the hardwood floors with a damp washcloth, it just never occurred to me to clean my home that way.

(I like gadgets quite a bit, but I am also drawn to the inherent simplicity of not "reinventing the wheel", especially when money/advertising/consumer culture becomes involved. At that point my dance card had names on it like: broom, Swiffer and vacuum cleaner. With notes penciled in next to those names such as: not effective against dust bunnies, novelty wore off fast and too loud and heavy.)

Thanks to mom that day, technically, I no longer had a blind spot, but my mind layered another one right over it. This feminist princess was not getting down on the floor. Rationales blossomed from air.

(I have a long term partner, a man, who was raised by a feminist alongside a feminist sibling. He has no qualms about doing housework. Unfortunately, for me, his tolerance for dust and disarray equaled mine.)

Gem is turning 10 next week.

I've made some slow progress, at times the creaking of the rusted gears has been deafening, and over the weekend I got down on my hands and knees and wiped down the kitchen floor.

We're in a different apartment, two states removed. There's wall-to-wall carpeting which I am trying to restore (from damage inflicted by us) with the help of my Dyson, surface after surface get dusty pretty quickly and I intend to model "good housekeeping" as best as I can to two growing boys and grown man.

As I was back down on my knees in the kitchen this morning (once a gear clicks into place I sometimes become hyperfocused...I find gestalt irresistible), I saw Cinderella in my mind. Disney Cinderella. And I realized that a part of me equated housework as a prerequisite to the arrival of my Prince who would, not necessarily sweep me away, but signal the arrival of what's next.

And if the drudgery of housework was what came before what happened next, then it would not exist in the ever after. Of course, in my "before" my mom did most everything. And, I hit my "what's next" in very early adulthood (Cap and I got together in 1989). I left all thoughts of housework behind quite a bit before I was done thinking all my grown up thoughts.

So here I am at age 44, beginning to put some basic blocks of thought and action together. Focusing awareness and intention from within, outward. It's never too late.


(This is me "just doing (it)" NaBloPoMo. Thanks for the inspiration, Monica.)