Ride on, little girl
I just got back from a walk, and on my way I saw a little girl on a skateboard.
Actually, she was anywhere from 11 to 13, so not so little, and she was practicing. She carried it from the middle of the road where I saw her. Set it down. Stood upon it, steadied herself, wobbled a little, and prepped a flip that ultimately failed.
But I saw her core was strong.
She reminded me of my friend Francesca, who is teaching herself how to ride a skateboard. She takes her board into the wilderness where no one can watch her, and practices.
Feeling a little shy, I called out to the girl across the street, "How long have you been riding?"
She replied with a laugh, "Not very long."
"You're going to be great," I said.
The girl looked surprised. Then she beamed. "THANKS!"
A woman--I think it was the girl's mother--who was nearby walking the dog, said, "Aww, see?" in a most encouraging and understanding voice.
By that time, I had already passed them and was well on my way. But I couldn't stop smiling.
I like to see a girl on a skateboard.
Years ago, one evening as I presided at a Vespers service at my pastoral musician father's church, he told me, "I like to see a woman vested."
He had a radical twinkle in his eye. It is quite a thing to say in a Catholic Church.
Since then, I have officiated at two weddings. Totally nondenominational. Totally splendid and unexpected and never something I imagined myself doing. I have been Maid of Honor and I have been a bridesmaid, but the wonderful spiritual SURPRISE of life came in my role as the (more or less) high priestess.
The thing is, I like to see a woman vested too.
I like to look in the mirror and see that woman there. Not bound by ancient law or traditions, but in defiance of them. In celebration of community. In love with ritual, even if I have to make the damned ritual up myself.
So. With that in mind, and in my father's tone of voice, I say to myself, "I like to see a woman on a skateboard."
It is like a blessing.
Ride on, little girl.
Rock on, young woman.
Peace.
Actually, she was anywhere from 11 to 13, so not so little, and she was practicing. She carried it from the middle of the road where I saw her. Set it down. Stood upon it, steadied herself, wobbled a little, and prepped a flip that ultimately failed.
But I saw her core was strong.
She reminded me of my friend Francesca, who is teaching herself how to ride a skateboard. She takes her board into the wilderness where no one can watch her, and practices.
Feeling a little shy, I called out to the girl across the street, "How long have you been riding?"
She replied with a laugh, "Not very long."
"You're going to be great," I said.
The girl looked surprised. Then she beamed. "THANKS!"
A woman--I think it was the girl's mother--who was nearby walking the dog, said, "Aww, see?" in a most encouraging and understanding voice.
By that time, I had already passed them and was well on my way. But I couldn't stop smiling.
I like to see a girl on a skateboard.
Years ago, one evening as I presided at a Vespers service at my pastoral musician father's church, he told me, "I like to see a woman vested."
He had a radical twinkle in his eye. It is quite a thing to say in a Catholic Church.
Since then, I have officiated at two weddings. Totally nondenominational. Totally splendid and unexpected and never something I imagined myself doing. I have been Maid of Honor and I have been a bridesmaid, but the wonderful spiritual SURPRISE of life came in my role as the (more or less) high priestess.
The thing is, I like to see a woman vested too.
I like to look in the mirror and see that woman there. Not bound by ancient law or traditions, but in defiance of them. In celebration of community. In love with ritual, even if I have to make the damned ritual up myself.
So. With that in mind, and in my father's tone of voice, I say to myself, "I like to see a woman on a skateboard."
It is like a blessing.
Ride on, little girl.
Rock on, young woman.
Peace.