PHOTO: Mary van Balen
After nine hours of selling bras and underwear and cleaning out dressing rooms, I looked forward to getting off my feet. Hot humid air blew across the parking lot as I looked for the little Civic with an Obama/Biden sticker on the bumper. I collapsed into the driver’s seat, turned the air conditioner on “high” and started the long drive home.
Traffic wasn’t bad. I popped a voice therapy CD into the player, started taking deep breaths, and progressed through the four exercises that are helping combat chronic hoarseness. Eleven minutes and miles later I was cooling off and feeling less like a dishrag and more like a person.Energy seeped back into my bones and I decided to stop by a friend’s apartment instead of driving straight home.
Unbelievably, she was home! Despite trying to meet for the past three months, we had been unsuccessful unless you count the one time we ran into each other at a shopping strip and exchanged promises not to give up on finding a day we were both free.
Pat and I met when I was taking elementary education classes. Principal of the school where I was placed for a quarter or two plus student teaching, she was impressive not only because of her six foot frame and booming voice, but also because she was passionate about helping kids learn. She remained fearless in the face of critical state inspectors who shook their heads in disbelief when her teachers’ lesson plans did not follow instructions to divide school days into minutes required for every subject, and knew nothing about “child-centered, informal education” or why it was a better way to teach her young charges.
She traveled with some of her teachers and a couple lucky student teachers (myself included) to New York City where we observed Lillian Weber’s “Open Corridor” concept. In crowded public schools, classrooms spilled out into the wide hallways, creating areas for all kinds of learning: art centers, reading nooks, woodworking benches or dramatic play.
After a day in the schools we sat up late into the night talking about how we might do something similar once we returned home, and then, hungry, we walked through Harlem to find a place where we could buy something to eat. Fearless.
That was years ago. Yesterday, sitting in her small living room at the retirement center, I took off my shoes, curled up in a recliner and enjoyed a glass of ice water along with her candor and sense of humor. Our conversation wound around a variety of topics: books she is reading, my loose-ends life, her twenty-year-old cat, Taz, and aging.
A few hours with Pat always leaves me affirmed, ready to dive back into life with more energy and faith than I brought with me. My women friends are like that: No pretense, no tension, and communication that flows like a spring, dispensing wisdom, humor, and hope.
Defying social convention of the time, Jesus hung around with women as well as men and didn’t hesitate to strike up conversations with them when he met them on his journey. Women numbered among his closest friends and disciples.
Another friend of mine, a contemplative nun, told me a story: A man had been coming to talk with her for months, seeking her counsel. During one meeting he said, “A pity you were not born a man. I imagine you regret that. You could have done so much.”
I don’t know how my friend kept from laughing out loud. “A woman,” she told me, “maintains the center, has tremendous capacity for relationship and love, and being with.” She laughed. No regrets.
© 2010 Mary van Balen
Speak Your Mind