A stitch in time

One of the student speakers at the March for Our Lives in Washington DC last Saturday was Emma Gonzalez, an 18-year old senior, now on the world stage because of the February shooting at her high school in Parkland. In an interview leading up to the march, she talked not just about the activism role she and her classmates have assumed, but also about the coping mechanisms they are discovering. One of hers is embroidery. The jacket she wore at the march is covered with patches she made when she needed to escape the spotlight.

As the march in Chicago was wrapping up, I was in the textile department at the Art Institute enjoying an exhibit on American quilts. There were hand-stitched pieces from the mid-1800s to a few modern ones where sewing machines were additional tools for the crafters and artists. Some quilts told a story while others commemorated an event or a person; a couple simply used up scraps of material. It was easy to picture quilting bees through the centuries. To see each stitcher concentrating on a square that would become part of the whole. To envision mothers guiding little hands, as my own mother did the summer I was eight. Whether embroidering a patch, badge, vest, doily, tablecloth, pillowcase, or a square for a quilt, the task can be relaxing. It is rewarding to see different threads and stitches make the piece come to life with color, design and texture.

Emblems embroidered on uniforms identify brands, teams, and ranks in the military. They provide a sense of pride for the wearer, a sense of accomplishment for the sewer. I hope that Emma continues to proudly wear her jacket, to add patches as she wishes, and I hope that with each stitch she finds healing as well as purpose. Mostly, I would hope that this generation no longer stitches badges for contemporaries lost to gun violence.

Marilyn 

Bumper stickers

One of my favorite exercises when facilitating a session on corporate or personal values is to divide the participants into small groups and have them come up with bumper sticker slogans representing the different points of view. Usually clever, mostly on target, and occasionally controversial, the activity both summarized the learnings and often generated interesting conversations for the remainder of the training. Though I’ve never had a bumper sticker on any of my cars, I do enjoy reading them as I drive or sit at a stoplight. I’ve laughed, frowned, agreed and disagreed with the sentiments. Sometimes I was appalled or confused. 

That’s how I was on Saturday in the grocery store parking lot when a saw one that said, “If you can read this, thank a teacher.” I smiled, recalling the ones that warn, “If you can read this, you’re too close.” Nice twist, I thought. But the bumper sticker didn’t end there. It went on to say, “If you can read it in English, thank a soldier.” My smile turned to a scowl for I didn’t immediately understand the exact intent of the message. On the surface, it might be simple, but somehow it seemed sinister. Perhaps it’s today’s political climate that had my mind going to arming the teachers with assault rifles and to those with guns who blocked the school entrances during the civil rights movement. I thought of closed borders to keep out the ‘other’ when most citizens here, myself included, are ‘other.’ 

Bumper stickers tell others what clan we belong to. From schools to political views, sports to branches of the military, hobbies to pets, we let others know our allegiances, loves and beliefs, while providing free marketing for universities, teams, organizations, etc. I don’t know what clan the owner of my Saturday encounter really represented, but I know that if I ever do paste one on my car it would be the one - you’ve seen it, with the religious and peace symbols - that says coexist. What’s your clan?

Marilyn

Reunions

A recent piece on NPR told of a family reunited with a dog that had gone missing a decade before. One columnist in the Chicago Tribune has been highlighting the story of an asylum seeking Congolese mother who was wrongly separated by immigration officials from her 7-year old daughter last November. The mother is in California and the child, here in Illinois. Thousands of readers now wait for news of their reunion. Tools like FaceBook now join the media, who for decades have provided us with images of service men and women reunited with loved ones.

We have plenty of opportunities for reunions of all sorts. Holidays or summers can mean big family reunions, but so can weddings and funerals. One friend is regularly engaged in her high school’s reunion activities and another with his college graduating class. Believers and seekers gather for weekly services and may sense a connection to historic saints or ones in their own lives, and through liturgy, prayers, music or communion, gain a reconnection with self and soul. 

Reunions remind us of the passage of time. With the change of seasons, gardeners and farmers wait anxiously to see the results of past labor while the rest of us may change wardrobes. Some reunions generate smiles while many can be painful, or at least bittersweet. If you’ve ever done major downsizing or made a significant long distance move, you’ve had the experience like one friend who recently was symbolically reunited with long gone relatives as she decided whether to keep or donate once treasured items. Each of us has dark corners in our past. We don’t like it when something happens to resurrect that part of ourselves, of our journey, when we were victim or perpetrator, careless or cruel. Just as my friend gave away her brother’s vase, a pie plate from a dear aunt, and a pair of shoes worn on special occasions, we can use those reunion moments to shed light in that dark place within us and seek to find understanding, resolution, forgiveness, grace, or peace. 

Marilyn

Some random thoughts on housekeeping

For two summers of my college years I worked as a maid at the Howard Johnson’s by the Greater Buffalo International Airport. Each morning I was part of a crew that grabbed a green cotton uniform, loaded up a cart, and then headed off to our block of rooms for that day. After semesters of sitting in classes, piano practice and dorm rooms, chapel, and library cubicles, doing something physical felt good.

As #MeToo stories emerged and maids and housekeepers shared some of their experiences, I was not surprised, although nothing happened to me back then. All I had was some audible entertainment from one room as I cleaned next door, particularly on Tuesdays when a certain couple kept their standing afternoon appointment.

One can outsource the tasks associated with maintaining a clean home. Back in my yuppie days, I did that for a while, but for me that was more about status than it was about being practical. That’s because I enjoy cleaning, well, except for vacuuming, so I’m grateful for all the places where I’ve had hardwood floors.

Manufacturers have responded to the increase in our accumulated stuff by offering a multitude of products designed to make the job of cleaning them easier. All that has done is add more chemicals to our lives. Lemon juice, vinegar, linseed oil and borax are probably all that is really needed. Oh, and elbow grease.

The industry standards for my HoJo job were not that different from how my mother had kept house for decades. A sibling or roommate can teach us, however, that there are various levels of comfort regarding dust, clutter, spills and dirt. What passes my white glove test may not pass yours, which is what came to mind the other day when I took a picture off the wall to dust the frame and realized I hadn’t done that since I moved in 18 months ago. I thought, “Oops, time to get back to some basics around here and do some spring cleaning.” Luckily, the Lose It app tells me that one hour of housekeeping burns 203 calories!

Marilyn