M.O., Freedom, Acceptance

Misogynistic Oppression”, that’s what I wrote on my white terry cloth arm bands with a black sharpie yesterday. It was right before we started to kick and punch the giant torso of clay Jill set up for us. This was the second to last meeting of our Parent Artist Residency, Being Human. This week’s project was kickboxing rage, gloves into clay, shoe prints, scratches, pushes and pulls. The clay our receiver and our transformer.

“What’s the word that comes to you when you look at your sculpture?” Asked the kick boxing instructor.

Freedom” I said.

She loved that I used that word. She said it brought tears to her eyes.

I said, in our discussion before we started working physically, my feeling of rage came from two years of depression, instigated by the election of 2016.

Now it’s almost Friday. Misogynistic Oppression started Sunday. I left the art boxer session calm. I progressed through the week- acceptance would be the word I can think of.

Today, for example, I waited at a crosswalk for pedestrians to cross, I was making a left-hand turn. A big red truck honked at me. Lately drivers in my city have seemed on edge, driving fast, honking, not letting people cross the street. I’ve been bothered by this, scared me or my kids or my dog will get hit. Today, when the red truck honked at me just to be an asshole I didn’t care or react or flinch. I didn’t take any of that energy in. I did what I knew, or what I felt to be right.

I watched my country crumble into I don’t know what this week. I’m afraid of what is being revealed about a vast number of Americans. What if things are as bad in my country as my medicated brain think they are?

I can’t give that any energy. Not too, too much. I can only do what I think to be right.

I have a pot full of slow cooked chicken noodle soup with a warm loaf of bread for dinner tonight. I’ve used the slow cooker almost every night this week and made my kids eat what I cooked. It’s the right thing to do.

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About Dirty Laundry Blog

Thoughts on Motherhood Through the Eyes of an Artist