One of my first delights when I went to Europe was coming upon all the clotheslines strung from building to building. The items pinned were so colorful, and seeing those lines winding their way down through the cobblestoned streets made every day feel like a celebration.
When I was little my highest aspiration was to be a wife and a mother. Borne from that desire came a wisdom that God is surely a man, as who should be put in my path to help achieve that dream, but Funk.
I couldn’t wait to do his laundry, cook his meals, bear his children. But Funk wanted none of it, except for the children. Nope, him being nine years older, he was quite the feminist when I met him, something I had learned from my upbringing was to be scoffed at.
At the end of our first date we fought about how we were going to raise our children, as nobody was going to smack my kids around. Our second fight was because he wouldn’t let me wash his clothes. A situation I’m sure he deeply regrets to this day, and you can’t imagine how much I love that! As borne from HIS desire came the beginnings of the animal I am today. Not necessarily a foot-stomping feminist, but trust me, although I am a chickensh*t at heart, it doesn’t stop me from standing up in the face of wrong. And not just for myself, but for anyone who is more chickenhearted than I am.
Yet given that, I’ve had a love affair going with clotheslines since I first discovered them. Because to me, there was nothing more comforting than hanging my family’s linens on the line, knowing they’d be sleeping under sunshine come nightfall. Nothing more feminine. More sensual. The entire task – from pinning them just so, to watching them swell in a breeze – made me feel powerful back then, and still does today, even with my children now out of the home.
There’s just something so primal about it. The doing takes me back to the beginning, reflects the Goddess in me back to myself. The Goddess that Funk created. Sucks to be Funk.