I’ve been writing here and there over the past couple months, but only in my mind. Grasping at wisps of ideas. Wondering what I could possibly write that would be of any interest to anyone else.
It’s been a weird winter. Brown, and warm, and dull. Still dark as always. Darker, probably, without snow. I’ve been uninspired and frankly worn down and bored. We’ve had illness after illness in our household, one melding right into the next. The most recent virus—something unnamed that everyone seems to have, has caused me and the rest of my family to hack and cough for weeks. I finally got on some antibiotics yesterday, only for my five year old to come down with Influenza A. So it goes.
My ordinary days have not been particularly meaningful, it seems. Waking, working, laundering, coughing, reading, watching shows, kid activities, and all the other normal life things. And on and on. I haven’t been painting or writing or crocheting. I’ve barely seen friends or made it to church or the gym. I’m too tired. Too sick. Too bored. It’s an unhappy kind of hibernation, without even a snowy view!
Where’s the beauty in this truly mundane non-winter?
Meanwhile, it’s awards season and all of us non-famous people get to watch the beautiful and impressive receive accolades for their incredible accomplishments. Whether it’s musicians, actors, athletes, or authors, there seems to be an award or a championship for everything. Award season can be fun. It’s fun to cheer for the people doing impressive things, making great art, winning big games. When someone is honored for doing work that we find inspiring, moving, or entertaining, it’s a good thing to celebrate with them.
And then somehow, things slip sideways a bit, and we start comparing our own ordinary lives to these Greats and we wonder why we aren’t living up to those ideals. Why do we do this? Here’s a post I keep seeing shared all over social media:
I see similar sentiments about how young and fit celebrities over 40 look—how does she do that? Or people feeling bad about themselves because they aren’t able to wake up at 5am every day to write or exercise or paint. Or they wonder why, at the age they are now, they haven’t achieved something worthy of recognition.
Can we stop doing this, please?
Taylor Swift can release a new album in the middle of a world tour because it’s her job and she is a billionaire. She’s not doing her own laundry, or cooking and cleaning up after every meal. She doesn’t carry the mental load for her household. She has staff for that.
I also remind myself, that among the famous and accomplished, it’s still an elite few who somehow get to skip the ordinary tasks like household chores, driving their kids around to activities, or managing a budget. And everyone gets sick, right? No one is immune to the common cold.
I’m reading this wonderful book by Camille T. Dungy called Soil: The Story of a Black Mother’s Garden. She artfully weaves together stories from her ordinary life alongside the story of her garden and stories of environmental writers, poets, and history-makers. Early on in the book, she describes how writers like Henry David Thoreau and Annie Dillard wrote about their experiences in nature as if domestic life didn’t exist. Dungy writes:
Where are the foundational stories of this entitlement—the fully focused life of the artist—being offered to women who place their families as a priority as central to their lives as their artistic achievement? Maybe I didn’t see mothers in the canon of environmental literature because it has long been impossible for mothers to write narratives of a world where they can wander alone in the open, pausing long enough to let grasshoppers eat sugar from their hands. Maybe I don’t see mothers in the canon of environmental literature because it’s impossible for most mothers to create a world where they have nobody to think of but themselves.
Most of us do not have this kind of privilege. Most people are not making art secluded in the woods. We’re making art in starts and stops, making the most of the pockets of time tucked between chores and appointments. Or maybe only in bursts of energy, once or twice a quarter. We’re honing new skills or ideas only when our kids are unusually self-occupied or after they’re in bed, or maybe only in our heads as we watch them go up and down a waterslide at the pool.
Last night, the first big snow of this weird winter fell outside my window. I kept peeking through the blinds to grin like a little kid at my sparkling front yard. Finally, winter like it’s supposed to be!
I’m probably still coming down with the flu and I’m worried that some fun plans we have for the weekend will be ruined. This evening was one of those unexpected opportunities to write. But did I have anything worthwhile to say? Maybe not. But I guess that’s okay too. Part of being an ordinary person is sometimes not having anything to say.
The world is finally draped in white, as it should be in February in Minnesota. I feel a little more settled. Now I’ll turn back to my ordinary evening—blowing my nose, drinking tea, and watching something entertaining until it’s time to sleep.
Hoping for a healthier tomorrow,
—NK
Thanks for your authenticity. And for your beautifully crafted words on a topic that is not, in and of itself, very beautiful.
I always enjoy your writing, Naomi. I hope you and your family are feeling better soon and that you are able to have a nice weekend, whether it's exceptionally fun or ordinary...or both.