Forty plus years ago I thought my mother boring. It was beyond me why she preferred to sit in on a Friday night instead of going out with my dad. Why didn’t they want to go to a movie, to dinner, to friends, or out to dance, anything rather than sit at home in front of the television? My mom knit whenever she sat so she was always making something. My dad watched hockey or Lawrence Welk and was not to be disturbed. Shh! I couldn’t make sense of it – then. Now that I’m living that exact life sans hockey, Lawrence Welk, or the knitting, I understand completely. Oh, and I think myself boring, too. Progression or regression. I’ve not decided. Lol
In some year or other after Woodstock, I was arrested and spent the night in a grey concrete cell. My chums were American citizens and got to go home, but I had to appear before a judge in the morning being Canadian and all. The guys in the cell beside mine were recently returned from Viet Nam and not adjusting well. I listened to them most of the night and my views shifted. Breakfast was stale Corn Flakes and milk so sour it was curdled. It wasn’t my last protest but it was my last arrest.
I suppose we are all only the sum of our parts. We dance or knit, watch the game or play it, but at the end perhaps it is what we risk that’s most remembered. And the risk might just be staying in on a Friday night and knitting.
My wish tonight is for the courage to push yourself to your limit. That’s all. Just that.