knots, similar but not the same

“This is how you space out the knots,” Old Man George said, his voice deep and gravelly like the riverbed we sat beside. “And don’t forget to feel your breath.”

George was an oak of a man, weathered by time and toughened by life—his hands were a tapestry of scars, blackened and twisted by years spent wrestling with the elements. That day, we found ourselves at the mouth of a draining pipe, where the water poured out like stories out of a caffeinated bard’s mouth, a dam’s stubborn attempt to hold back the world's chaos. There we were, at the confluence of a village—a forgotten “COOPERATIVE” footnote in a history book—and a city eager to march toward financial independence, social independence, and solitude.

Above us, a meticulously knotted square net hung, suspended in the swirling water like some absurd metaphor for life. Fish darted through the holes, while others, the bigger ones, bounced off the mesh-like ideas rejected by a mind too narrow to catch them. A few remained. There we sat, an old man and a child, observing the furious dance of foaming waves, our cheeks, and forearms stung by icy droplets and our backs warmed by the sun’s fiery embrace. The air was thick with the rotten egg scent of mud and the sound of rolling thunder.

I liked Old Man George. He was much like the grandfather I could never remember, a sturdy figure in a chaotic and unkind world. Quiet, thoughtful, and steady—he had a way of saying profound things most casually. “Once, I fished all day,” he’d say, “caught nothing but patience.” Such words would surface at pivotal moments in my life as if he had planted a multitude of microbombs triggered by raw trials. Microbombs that unravel into sidekick guiding lights. I wonder how many still lay in the shadows of my mind.

Home was a battlefield of raised voices, my grandmother and father locked in a dance of conflict that played on repeat. It could easily be another sob story drowning in a sea of familiar tales, but now that I am a father, I find myself sifting through old memories, feeling the weight of my family’s emotions. Is there something to this memory worth knowing as a father? Something worth sharing? George’s talk about knots and people, a sidekick guiding light?! “Not all knots are the same. Similar but not the same. If they all twisted and turned in the same direction, this net would fail. Like knots on a net, people are similar but not identical. They twist, turn, and have beliefs pulling in different directions. The resilience of this village lies in those differences. What we share is what connects us.”

This memory clawed its way back to me as I wrestled with the clash of my sociopolitical and religious beliefs against those of my parents and in-laws. Tension, like a taut fishing line, pulled tighter with every visit. Since my wife and I had our son, it quadrupled, stretched by universes of differing perspectives as he became aware of a life beyond his mom and dad. And with every tense encounter, just like the stretched-out rubber band, entropy increased. Our house is quiet—no arguments like the ones from my childhood—but those memories have become lighthouses, guiding me away from the rocky shores of ego.

But how can I stay silent when social equity—the sacred moral compass of my family, the North Star guiding my wife’s and my careers, the value we want to instill in our still-ego-driven toddler—is challenged not by a stranger but by his grandparents? The “wise” ones of this little pack. Should I let their views slide by like fish slipping through the net? Should I worry that our son might grow up thinking those born into poverty are less, that only one religion holds the truth, that one race or nationality trumps another, that one political view is better than another, that one body type is better than another, that one lifestyle is better than another or that people have a choice even when they’re shackled by mental health demons? Those encounters terrify me; they threaten to mold our son into the very opposite of what we stand for.

“...and don’t forget to feel your breath.”

I could argue, but isn’t that what I watched destroy the relationship between my father and his mother? But this is a righteous cause—to raise a righteous human being—righteous in my eyes, and righteous in the eyes of the society, place, and time we live in. The world is better than it used to be, and there’s no denying that. We owe this better world to the people who fought against injustice. So, what would you do if you were in my shoes?

“Knots, similar but not the same.”

But is it me versus you? Us versus them? Social equity means tolerance, which blooms into curiosity, which evolves into empathy, which manifests as peace. I could choose the path of hurt, anger, retaliation, and counterculture, and my son would inherit a house divided. I could raise my voice, and he would see only my ego instead of the values of tolerance, curiosity, empathy, and peace. I could embody Old Man George—breathing in the chaos, recognizing the different knots, spacing them out to weave a net.

“Knots, similar but not the same.”

I could give my child the chance to encounter varied views and beliefs and to listen as he discovers that a net is woven from similar yet distinct knots. I could model tolerance, curiosity, empathy, and peace. I could show him that we trust him to navigate the social challenges that entangle every human being daily, from the moment they draw breath until they take their last. Maybe even after the lights go out, who knows?! Along the way, he will construct his net, some knots closer together, some further apart, but each essential to its strength. He’ll catch a fish or two—the big ones—while the little ones, those subtle ideas, slip by, humbling the weaver.

“...and don’t forget to feel your breath.”

I blink, waking from a trance to the thunderous sound and pounding vibrations in my chest. Old Man George, smiling from the corners of his eyes, says, “Welcome back. Don’t rush. You’ll get there... “

“Now let’s have lunch.”

After a while, he breaks the silence with a guttural clearing of the throat and...

“ By the way, you know the best part about fishing? Fish never argue back. But…” he chuckles, “when they slip through the net or bounce off it, they keep you sharp. It’s the ones that challenge you that make the net stronger.”