The Ordinary

 Quite impulsively, I tore the wrapper and the inner foil lining, snapped a few rectangular pieces of chocolate and casually, but expertly aimed for my mouth. Once I began chewing, my tongue and the roof of my mouth was assaulted by pop rock candies that had nowhere to go, but to bounce up and down and crackle inside my mouth. This, a product of Israel, certified by a rabbi as Kosher, satisfied my cravings.  Those cravings that I must have had, but never acknowledged before I savagely attacked the bar in the first place. In five minutes flat, I devoured two servings, while actively discounting the events of my day as unworthy subjects for writing.

Tonight my son and I were talking over dinner about E.B. White and his brilliance.  White was able to translate his life on his homestead in Brooklin, Maine into something pretty extraordinary as he wrote.  Ordinarily, a city dweller, E.B. viewed his country life with fresh eyes. Everything was new and exciting.

Thinking about my day, those I came in contact with and their unique perspectives of our world helped me to view my life with gratitude.  Early this morning, a former student skipped down the hall, stopped her motion abruptly and asked, “When are you going to read with me again?” The first grader who asked to have extra work packed in his bag for the weekend is not afraid of risks and hard work.  His face must ache from all the smiling.  He is so happy to be reading.

Everyday can be new and exciting whether you are a famous author, a young reader or middle-aged female teacher who is a reader and writer.  We are in charge of how we spend our time and how we view the world.  We wonder and we write so as not to forget the extraordinary nature of the ordinary.

Opportunities

I am not a morning person. Seldom do I hop out of bed ready for the day, unless I am catching a plane or one of my kids are sick or something.  I am a, “Just 5 more minutes, pleeease, oh pleeeease!” I often implore my husband who tends to bolt out of bed, awake and ready. 

During this sacred time of the nineteen day fast, the alarm sounds in the darkness of the early morn.  When I was growing up, my family abided by the laws of lent.  No meat on Friday and before the first day of lent you would make a promise to give something up like candy or something as a spiritual sacrifice.  I was never much good at that.  Maybe I was too young, too immature.  But as an adult, I recognize the potency of this time and opportunity for renewal. 

My biggest struggle is to rise in darkness.  I like the light.  The shades are open to allow the sunshine to find its’ way in and kiss me awake in light and warmth.  This morning, my alarm was set across the bedroom, so when it sounded I bound toward it in one leap to turn it off.  The annoyance of the alarm’s tone tends to arouse and I shuffled toward the kitchen for wake-up coffee.   During the fast, all food and drink must be consumed before sunrise.  The night before, I plan my strategy of attack.  How do I get the most sleep in and eat and drink before sunrise?  This morning, I had the cold quart of milk kefir, the mix of whole grain cereals, banana, bowls and spoons all lined up for quick assembly while the water boiled for the French press. This strategy allowed a twenty-five minute period to pass from the time I shut off the alarm to when I sipped the last of the coffee.  I admit, my description is not very spiritual at this point, but as the nineteen days progress, I become keenly aware of the seasonal changes and expansive nature of light.  It also helps to remind me how grateful I am to ordinarily have a full belly and plenty of fresh food and water, while others are without.  That is their daily existence. 

The sacrifice of sleep expands my day of prayer and reflection. With my husband by my side following breakfast this morning and bird song in the background, we carefully selected prayer and sat in silent meditation. 

It is now lunch hour.  I will not eat again until sunset. Instead I will pray when ordinarily I would mindlessly be eating.  Some days are easier to get through than others, but I am ready for the wisdom and guidance that comes with slowing down, living more mindfully, spiritually and taking note of the many bounties I have in my life-grateful that I have an opportunity to grow and affect a change in my world.  A change for the better in my thoughts, words and deeds.

In Preparation of Mud

Three days of unrelenting snow fall, albeit tantalizingly white, fluffy and yes beautiful was followed by today’s snow showers and mud.  Mud oozing with melt off.  This made for a careful dog walk, while Rex found the perfect spot to deposit.  For days now, while wearing my fashionable suede boots my right heel would get wet, only my right heel.  This is expected with slushy conditions, but I also found that I got wet in mud, despite my careful walking. Closer inspection revealed a spidery web of cracks in the sole of my boot.  Spring is nearing.  I can feel it, but can I manage another month with these boots? 

So comes the notion of spring.  A season that both sooths the senses waking to the sound of chattering birds or wrangles the adult psyche when one realizes clean floors are impossible during the time of mud.  So every soul in New England who is responsible for house cleaning tries to avoid the stuff when walking outside, but that is also an impossible notion.  So, the only solution is to wear rubber boots, daily.  You know the kind that rise up to your knees in case of a flash flood.  My old trusty navy blue pair also sprung a leak.  For weeks now the local stores have taken great care to attract the consumer with huge displays of the rubber boots that now rival great museum quality art with the funky colors and designs.  The bright yellow rain boots of my youth are hard to find. 

Just a week ago, I passed one of those big displays in the Ellsworth Tractor Supply store.  Last week, in the throngs of winter, spring seemed so far away, but today with the tease of mud I needed those boots.  Carrying a mental list: cat food, check on the details of ‘Chick Days’, rubber boots, I pushed through the main entrance of the store and headed without a cart to the shelves of bags of cat food.  Indoor, outdoor, kitten food, weight maintenance… the forty pound bags were lined up neatly on the shelves.  My husband quickly followed behind, grabbed the familiar light green bag of indoor formula (the only kind that seems to keep the hairballs at bay) and   we headed toward the back of the store where we conjured images of fluffy balls of chirping spring chicks all hankering for food and the warmth of the heat lamp.  My husband lugging the bag through the store, made a quick dash for the check-out.  I swiped my debit, grabbed my slip and my husband was already in the car, when I realized I did not buy my boots.  The display was no longer.  I cocked my head this way and that standing on tip toes in an attempt to see the artful footwear as I walked out the store, but all I saw was Carharrt tee shirts and cowboy boots.  No rubber rain boots.

The forecast midweek calls for another wicked snowstorm.  I am just hoping that the snow and cold will last, just until I can don my brand new not so yellow rubber boots.  Just in time for the mud.