Intuition
That extra sense is not to be ignored. I don’t want to call it the sixth sense,
because there is a really scary movie associated with that. Just like the
thirteenth floor of a hotel. I would book another room on maybe, let’s say the
seventh floor. Room 777. Superstitious, you say? To borrow from The Office,
“I’m not superstitious, just a little stitious.” I would call intuition the seventh sense.
Seven completes a week. Seven belongs to God. Seven is holy. Intuition is holy.
It is a gift.
Like other things that are holy, intuition tends to
be ignored. Spiritual matters are spiritually discerned. How do you hear
without ears? How do you see without eyes? I think everyone has a measure of
the gift. Some are more in tune than others. Intuitiveness is an emotional
intelligence, so I think that usually the female brain lights up a tad more
vivid when intuition wafts through the ether. Am I being sexist? You bet I am.
I am a feminist, that way. There are certain things
that we are just better at. It is what makes us women. Now I can only draw from
my narrow world—where I live. I am married to a man who solves problems. It is
one of the things I love about him. If it is reparable, he will find a way. I
just saw an e-card on Pinterest that I pinned on a board I title, “The Man.”
Atticus Finch is on there. Jimmy Stewart from It’s A Wonderful Life juggles his
four kids with his adoring Mary (Donna Reed) around the Christmas tree. The
e-card placards a Victorian lady and a gentleman. The card reads, “A real woman can do it all by
herself, but a real man wouldn’t let her.” I don’t know
about you, but I love this. In a word, resonates.
I curtsy to this because as I remember Roseanne Barr
said once, “There's a lot more to being a woman
than being a mother, but there's a hell
a lot more to being a mother than most people
suspect”.
I have a whole hat
rack of job descriptions entailing being a wife and mother. I easily fill up a
day. It is an art. My masterpiece is our children. So far, the canvas is
developing quite nicely. The painting isn’t finished yet. We have plenty of
color, and shadows that make it interesting, like chiaroscuro. It’s taking a
long time. We confer, we study, and we decide on just the right angle. After
all, it took Michelangelo a long time too. Rob has his brush stroke technique,
and I have mine. Together we can share it with the world.
This is where
intuition comes in. That still small voice that says, “Whoa, something is going
to happen.” If I had a quarter (nickels don’t go far enough anymore,) for the
times this has happened, I could furnish a sweet shabby chic writing desk. I
wish I’d written all these down. I’ll list a couple.
Katie is the first one up at our house. She’s in the
shower at six and ready for breakfast at six thirty. She’s tender, but can be
abrupt in her movements. I was just saying this to Rob the day before a small
tragedy. She shares certain physicality with her brother, Scott. They are a
female and male version of one another. Like our other son, Mark, and our
daughter, Danika.
This particular morning, Katie’s cell battery died
and her alarm didn’t ring. She was behind schedule, by her own standards. She
stomped down to the kitchen with wet hair and scowl. I asked what was wrong. I
tried to settle her. She wouldn’t be consoled. She slammed down the toaster
lever. “You
just need to calm down,” I chided.
When it came time to leave, I reminded the girls, “Be
safe today.” They know what I mean. Getting to school requires driving with the headlights on, smoky
mornings. Throughout the day, thoughts, words, actions that reflect a young lady
protecting her reputation are involved. Again, there is a lot more than suspected.
The door slams—another
slam. I begin unloading the dishwasher. Thirty seconds later, Katie trudges
back in holding her right hand, crying like my three year old used to.
“What’s wrong now?!”
I demand.
“I slammed my finger in the door.”
“The car door?”
“Noooo, the front
doooorrr,” she cries.
I knew it. I saw it
coming. Not exactly a cracked middle finger, but I had a feeling something
would happen.
Another time I made
macaroni and cheese in a rectangular glass pan. I served it up as leftovers for
lunch. I left it out on the counter for the girls. I actually thought that if I
didn’t carry the pan back out to the extra fridge in the garage, Beth would
try, and end up dropping it and breaking it. I saw the whole thing. But then, I
second guessed it. Too lazy to do it myself, I guess.
I went back to work.
I came home later to find Beth with bandages all over her hands. Danika swept
up the glass and performed first aid on her baby sister.
Many times I’ll
announce a warning. Rob will answer, “Are you hearing that small voice?”
Yes. It’s called intuition. It is a gift.
Don’t reason it away. It is an intangible.
Like faith. You can’t see it, smell it, taste it, or
hear it, but it’s more real than anything.
I will cherish it.
I will listen more than I speak.
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