I just love the stories behind unspoken actions, traditions…
The ones where we live what others began and carry on what others will adopt.
I peel the potatoes.
She, my big helper, pulled the pot out of the cupboard.
She rinsed it with water.
I smiled.
She filled it with water.
I put it next to the cutting board.
She asked which knife to use.
I pulled one out of the block on the counter.
She asked how big to cut the cubes; after I showed her, she tried to be careful.
I remember asking my Mom the same questions.
I remember not knowing ‘which way was up,’ and knowing that my mom would just know, I awaited instruction to move.
And this little one now comes up to my chest.
She doesn’t just give a little to our family, she breaks even.
Before too long, she might be able to give more then she takes.
But I won’t rush it along.
Just seeing her rinse the pot…
Like my Grandmother did,
Like my Mom did,
And Me…
A hundred times before, rinsing the pot or wiping the dish out before using it.
How do these almost sacred traditions begin?
I once asked my Mom. She said that the Israelites did it.
This left me bewildered, for we are neither of Israelite heritage (that I know of) nor Israelite scholars (except for reading the Old Testament).
Yet, I assumed as my imagination ran wild, that it all probably started in the desert where they wandered for 40 years.
Nobody wants sand in their pot or its crunch in their food.
So they rinsed or wiped to begin…
Without words, without question.
So their children did the same
Like my Grandma, my Mom, my daughter and I.
We walk in the path established by those long before us.
Do not move an ancient boundary stone set up by your ancestors. Proverbs 22:28
We chose not to break tradition. Maintaining those sacred boundary stones, that establish where we’ve always been, and what’s safe is important to do and pass on.
Yet, how many times have we overstepped those boundaries and felt the crunch, like gravel in our mouth, from moving the stone or not rinsing the pot, and taking more then we give, like one who doesn’t know which way is up.
So we make mashed potatoes like many before us.
And this is where my imagination took me, as I peeled the stack of potatoes and felt the sense of pride
Knowing that however the tradition began, that to me, it grew into a stone.
A stone with only a few faces that I’ve seen in my lifetime engraved upon it.
And anticipating those to come...
Those who find safety in the placement of the sacred
And rinse their pot before using it.
