Ok, I know what you're thinking. What the hell do Lindsay and the boxer formerly known as Cassius Clay have in common?
Answer: not a lot. Different genders, races, backgrounds, careers...everything, really. Even so, I've always loved Ali for the confidence--alright, sometimes downright cockiness--that he was famous for. He was publicly fearless; noted for taunting Sonny Liston with the jab that "Your hands can't hit what your eyes can't see!" And even after the fight, he could be heard boasting in the face of those that doubted him, proclaiming to thunderous applause: "I shook up the world!"
My father met 'The Louisville Lip' once. He said that when they shook hands Ali's massive palm swallowed his own. Looking down at my own hands as he recounted the story I imagined a child's in mine. But, my father told me, he was also struck by the obvious power and strength contained in the dark palm--the fear of what such a weapon could do when closed in a fist. As for that part of the mental picture, I have no comparison. But I do have two hands.
Now, I have never (well, almost never) thrown a punch in my life, but today I realized that "the work of our hands" is a literal thing just as much as a metaphor used for the purpose of inspiration. Ali worked with his fists and is known the world over for it. Me? I work with my hands in a far more humble way. I spend my days digging holes, building and repairing parts, installing pipes, and maintaining a few acres of college lawn. At the end of each day my hands are raw. They are often stained with pitch or lacquer and my nails are thick with mud. The skin between my fingers cracks and my knuckles often bleed. Some days, there's a part of me that almost glories in the mess of it all. I imagine that Ali did too, every now and again. But rather than throwing hooks and jabs, my hands are used to cultivate. Sure, it's not so glamourous or important in the grand scheme of things, and I doubt very much if anyone will every tack a picture of my sweat-stained face to their wall, (you know the one-- 1965, Sonny Liston looking up at our triumphant Champ from the flat of his back--and if you don't, see above!) but even so, I have become very proud of these, my two "mitts," with which I work all day. And today in particular was a special one in my workplace because of the ever-exciting and ceremonious monthly staff meeting comprised of all departments, directors, crew bosses and student employees. Near the end of the session (following the slides about how to avoid soft-tissue injury but before enjoying refreshments in the break room) my boss got up and praised the summer staff for all of its hard work and that of a few individuals in particular. He described things (all of which I could have listed before he said them and agreed with entirely;) things that matter to him, things that are desirable in an employee, and things that he is thankful for:
Dedication. Respect. Strength. Hard work. Commitment. Attitude. Flexibility. Drive. Follow-through. Dependability. The willingness to learn. The humility to ask for help. The heart of a servant.
I expected such qualities to be listed by Steve, a man who I admire and respect more than I can say, and who I count among my most valued mentors. What I did not expect was for him to finish by ascribing these characteristics to me. But he did. Momentarily taken aback, I recovered and went down to accept an envelope from his hand, to hug him and to thank him.
I was less surprised at the honor when I reflected on it a while later. Why? Because my mind wandered to my housemates: Katie, Julie and Lauren; and also to Cassius Clay. You see, pride and self-worth and valuing my own ability have never been very easy traits for me to understand or identify within myself. Thanks to the love and encouragement of a few good friends and an unexpected, public 'atta boy from my boss however, I can see that starting to change in me. I realize that it is okay to take pride in my work, not only in the work itself as I always have, but in the fact that I did that. I am allowed to glory in the outcome of my toils--a few acres of green grass--just as I am allowed to acknowledge that it was through the unique qualities of the Me Myself (enter Uncle Walt) that the work of my hands came to be done.
Normally, I would now proceed to qualify the above by being belittling and self-deprecating about what is, in reality, a single notch on the door of events in my life, and yet, somehow, I think that today is not a day for normalcy. In fact, I forbid it. Do you hear? Let this day--and for that matter, all the days hereafter--be extraordinary!
Because you never know. In 1997 Muhammad Ali won the Arthur Ashe Courage Award. And this morning, I felt like I did too.
Maybe me and Ali have more in common than I thought.
Maybe I too, will, in time, come to "float like a butterfly and sting like a bee."
Maybe I will become "The Greatest."
Maybe we all will.
In our own way, in our own time, through the work of our own hands, I believe we (that means YOU: Holly, Tracie, Libby, Elizabeth, Kristin, Kelsey, Dani, Devin, Julie, Katie, Lauren, Elise, Aubrey, KT, Laura, Jenny, Sam, Smac, Allison, Angela, Amy, Alicia, Calli, Michelle, Amanda, DJ, and Cody!) somehow, someday, will be so much more than "ok."
We will be Great.
I love you all; I have been blessed by each of you in more ways than the space of this page will allow me to express. And for that fact among many, I am truly grateful.
Ma' as-salama
