I do not feel profound at the moment.
I feel like my words can't even begin to describe the reverberations of my trip to South Africa. I want to write about so much and I honestly don´t know where to start. Perhaps those words will tumble out of me onto this space at some stage. What I can do though, is start right here. Unprofound and unstructured. I feel grateful to be back and grateful for my life here, but I have to summon motivation from the marrow of my bones to simply get up in the morning and start the day well. I am battling with the normality, the lack of busyness and aliveness and distraction. Battling with the silence and having to confront myself, my thoughts, my feelings. Battling with the lack of sunshine. Battling with ordinary, the mundanity of my life.
I ride it out, relying on my habits to get the day rolling. Listening to music for motivation for cooking and cleaning. I catch myself reading Bukowski and wondering if I am settling without protest, wasting my time on 'things that have no soul.'(Kitchen sink, I´m looking at you). I know this feeling, where this is leading. I allow the feelings to cascade in, knowing that it is good to acknowledge them. I won't wallow in them, there is beauty on the other side.
The feelings where I want to hand myself over to the poet in me, the dark abyss of my being that would sweep down into despair and explosive adventure and binge drinking. Chasing the night, chasing human connection and then destroying it, destroying myself while claiming to be truly human, truly living. To dance atop the alter of infatuation, lapping up her endorphins and then vomiting art. To leave laughter and heartache in my wake and to arrive at death's door gorged and trembling with life. Is that not what makes true writers or artists? The ones who can capture a feeling, an experience, a thought… and all of humanity can relate. Or I want to be the hero, changing the world. Making a difference, walking courageously and creatively. Living out all those quotes of reaching for the stars, of passion and vision and actions. And so, I am momentarily taut. Pulled between wanting to live extraordinarily with fire in my veins and electricity rolling through my fingertips, dancing under a shower of moondust and starlight; and knowing that an ordinary life lived well is, in itself, a miracle.
Can a write for a different feeling? Can I write for the average looking graves of ordinary heroes who have paid their taxes and loved their spouses and been faithful in the small things. Who stood firm in the face of the small defeats, the insignificant losses that will not be recorded in the transcripts of history. Who have built boring lives founded on bold decisions and who dance tectonically within the confines of their houses. Can I write for the people who fight, with ordinary acts of encouragement and compassion, for a world they will never see but will always hope for. Who teach their children kindness. Those who love their neighbors and enjoy a full dinner table surrounded by smiles.
I want that! I want to know deep in me that this life, this 'one wild and precious life´ is also a miraculously ordinary one. There will be different phases, of course, but I am in the phase that consists of lots of cooking and cleaning and listening and selfless loving, and not much to show for it at the end of the day. How to embed this knowledge deep enough into me that it shapes my perspective? On the sleep deprived days, the hormonal days, the repetitive days and the out-of-control days. I need something to hold on to. A reminder that this is important. This hug, this environment that I am creating, this attention that I am giving, this meal, this dance with my son around the living room. This matters! Your conversation with that friend, your job-well-done, your smile at a stranger, your making someone feel welcome, your choosing kindness over being right. It matters!
And what does that mean to me now? How do I break into to the present and out of just going through the motions. I don´t like the in-betweens and having so many things out of my control or beyond my ability to know exactly what is coming makes me restless. BUT I do have the precious gift of time. Of this moment. Of this in-between that will never exist again. Beyond the questions and the worries and the restlessness. Beyond the cold and the grey and the bittersweet memories. Beyond the revving of my more impatient, grandiose side. Beyond the looking toward having a baby and pining for the eventual arrival of spring. What do I want to do with this time? This irreplaceable, ordinary now?
I remember the WHY
I keep the house fairly clean because I want to create a calm and welcoming environment. I am a homemaker and that is a privilege. I cook nutritious meals because I like good food, and I want us to live a naturally healthy lifestyle. I cook because I love mealtimes together as a family, I cook because I love having friends and family over. I listen to my son and give him my attention because I want him to know that his opinion and thoughts matter, that he matters. I want to model for him how to listen to others. I listen because I genuinely like him and want to hear his thoughts. I say yes to his request to ride his kick bike 'one more time', even though I know it means taking another thirty minutes of being in the cold to travel two hundred meters up the road and back, because he loves it and I actually have time. Because I won´t get this phase back. I remember the why's and write them down.
As I remember the why's I can relax into my day. It flows more, I fight myself and my life less. I can notice the sunlight breaking through the grey, shimmering on the surface of the lake. I keep my eyes open for the beauty in the ordinary. I go joy hunting on the way to do the grocery shopping and while chasing after my son on his scooter. I breathe in and out, letting the why's hum through me as I wipe the condensation from every window frame in the house every morning. This matters. This action. This moment. This irreplaceable, ordinary now.
Yours matters too.
