This Ordinary Life
For many years, at great cost, I traveled through many countries, saw the high mountains, the oceans. The only things I did not see were the sparkling dewdrops in the grass just outside my door.
RABINDRANATH TAGORE
When I woke up this morning, I kept my eyelids pressed closed. I could hear something, perhaps rain, tapping quietly on the window. A deep breath in and yes - cool, rain scented air filled my lungs. Soft cotton sheets under my back, a rough woven blanket pulled across my chest. Another deep inhale and I slide out of bed quietly (a toddler who crawled in my bed sometime in the wee hours of the morning, still sleeping).
Some days, I like to just idly feel things. Observe things. Experience them. I pad across the cool hardwood floor and turn the kettle on. As the water hisses to a rolling boil, I pull two, three tins of tea out of the cupboard. A deep inhale of the first tin yields cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger. Spicy chai, a black tea blended with warming spices. The second tin, resting in my cupped hands is a milky oolong, smelling mildly malty. The third is heavily floral, lavender and rose with a touch of mint. I can hear the rain hitting the roof still and I settle on the spicy chai and fill the tea pot with the loose leaf. I pour the hot water over it, watching the steam rise as it steeps, scenting the air. A little milk poured in and I’m ready to sit by the window until the children wake up.
I watch the rain fall, there are birds flitting in and out of puddles unbothered by the light rain.
So much of our lives are spent seeking, searching, working, hunting - looking for the next thing to do or simply distracted by the daily drudgery (or the newest TV show).
It can be so soothing to simply sit with the ordinary things in front of us, and enjoy each aspect of them. Simply appreciating the moment of rinsing cold tea out of a mug, the clatter of breakfast dishes on the dining table, the sound of the dishwasher humming. The texture of the kitchen towels in your hand as you wipe the counter tops, the smell of rain still drifting in through open windows.
There are little treasures in these pockets of ordinary life. I collect them and line them up in metaphorical jars and study them. I wonder at them. I adore them.
When I was a teenager, I was rushing, rushing headlong into adulthood where I felt that it would be possible for life to finally feel like it made sense. To feel like I owned and controlled my own destiny. If I could sit down with 15 year old Raine I’d tell her to slow down and enjoy the texture of her own ordinary life. I’d ask her to take a breath, let her eyelids press closed. Listen to the sound of her own heart beating steadily in her chest. Enjoy the sensation of breath moving in and out of her lungs with ease. I’d ask her to pay attention to the flutter in her stomach that reminds her she skipped breakfast, again. I’d invite her to listen to the sound of that wild prairie wind howling around the tall poplar trees lining her acreage home. I’d tell her to describe the way a squash seedling feels in her hand, and how the cool clay filled earth feels as she digs a hole for each seedling. I’d remind her to take her time filling her bucket with sun-sweet strawberries and that the extra few minutes it takes to bike the long way home is worth it when the sky is this big. I’d tell her to collect those little moments and tuck them into jars for the future, because it will be these moments that light the way home when life becomes unbearable.
Because you won’t notice that the cracks in the sidewalk fill with violets unless you slow down enough not to step on them. We need to see the flowers spring through the concrete to remind ourselves that we can make it through hard things too.
We can make it through hard things too.