More and more situations in our era evoke in me a wide range of feelings. Either life used to be simpler, or perhaps I was merely less aware? (Probably both.) In any event, I now find myself turning toward — rather than running from — ambiguity and complexity.
Here’s an example: each year in late winter, New Englanders experience delays as workers patch pavement, repair pipes and lines, and do what it takes to keep modern conveniences available to the rest of us.
As a younger driver, I found it frustrating to navigate detours or to wait my turn, and sometimes fumed when a so-called quick trip was affected by delays.
Recently, however, I noticed four significant feelings arise in me as my journey was halted by workers. First, watching the crew toil in freezing temperatures to fix a water pipe, I felt awe-filled gratitude.
Then, noticing a “MEN WORKING” sign, I felt regret that such signs still exist. A “WORKERS” sign would use less paint and allow for more possibilities. I recall my stint with a construction crew in my early 20s; the experience empowered me and changed the course of my life.
As I sat in stalled traffic, I also felt curious. If there existed “WOMEN WORKING” signs, where would they be placed? They’d be everywhere! Schools, hospitals, engineering firms, violin makers’ shops, law offices, industrial design labs, cinematic studios, midwifery practices …
As traffic started moving, I felt hopeful. My late-teen son and his pals demonstrate flexible attitudes about people, roles, and dreams. Their generation faces a panoply of challenges as they inherit a bunch of problems they never asked for. But with creativity and admirable doses of celebration, I believe they could arrive somewhere wonderful, to a reality I’ve only been able to imagine.
As we celebrate Women’s History Month — and International Women’s Day March 8 — I imagine a world where children and families are nurtured and encouraged rather than intimidated and bombed. I yearn to spot “PEOPLE WORKING” signs dotting our landscapes as we choose to build, repair, and nourish. We could do it. Perhaps we will.
Eveline MacDougall, the author of “Fiery Hope,” is a musician, artist, mom, and regular columnist for the Recorder.