Often we think our own lives are boring, but to others they can be fascinating. That’s why it’s so fun to get to know someone new at a social gathering. This is the first in a series of Ordinary Life interviews I’m conducting with people I know. Pull up a chair and imagine we’re sitting in my backyard under twinkling lights hanging from a big tree, enjoying a glass of wine or cup of tea. It’s us, plus a handful of other people you’ve just met. The mood is cozy and electric—we’re all very comfortable talking with one another, even if we don’t know each other very well. We’re using discussion questions from a deck of cards to get the conversation going, and then we talk and listen to each other for hours.
Meet my friend E. She lives in the Midwest and is a thoughtful, artistic person who, like me, has been learning to lean into the joys of ordinary living and finding beauty in the mundane. In recent years, she’s been especially dedicated to “living micro” and doesn’t share much about herself online, but she made an exception for this.
Describe Yourself:
Teaching artist, theater maker, artist doula, micro-artist, aerial artist, poet, new mother. Some days I think this sounds too cool though—like all these labels mask the angsty struggling human who has been stuck inside with Covid, covered in her child’s snot, and hasn’t touched an aerial silk in months. I think there is something to my refrain of “artist” in that list though—not so much that I make art, but that art is how I process life. And engaging in the practice of creative expression—be it a flashy big production or singing my child a lullaby or composing a haiku over text for my friend who is grieving or learning a new piece of origami just for the heck of it or inviting someone to tell me how they’re doing through describing a landscape— that’s a consistent orientation for me.
What’s something in your life that is bringing you joy or meaning right now?
I’m having to make meaning as my routines continually get thwarted by illness and disruption. I have to embrace slow and empty, and strengthen my sense of self-worth outside of my normal markers.
What are you enjoying reading lately?
The Future is Disabled. I learn so much from the leaders of Disability Justice—one thing being that my worth is not tied to capitalist ideas of productivity. I don’t have to earn the right to be here—and how I do life doesn’t have to fit the “norm.” A person is inherently valuable. Period.
Finish this thought, “I’m a firm believer in . . .”
Something doesn’t have to scale, or last forever, or be for more than one person to be significant.
Imagine there’s been a major global apocalyptic event and you’re one of the survivors helping to rebuild society. What skill or knowledgebase would you bring to the effort?
I can hold space for people to creatively and somatically move through the trauma. I can help people reconnect with themselves and others so they can activate their own skills in the rebuilding.
Describe a challenge or difficult experience you’ve faced and how it impacted you. How are you different or how do you see the world differently as a result?
I had a job that took me to the brink. The vicarious trauma and lack of sustainable work culture was making me physically and mentally ill. I learned so much about boundaries and self-advocacy. One of my highest values now is I only do my piece of the work (the world can only be healed through interdependence and us all working together. I cannot shoulder it all.) and I do it only within the bounds of my ever-shifting capacity.
What keeps you grounded?
The “constraints” I’ve chosen. A child that needs my love, a dog that needs a walk, a cat that needs to be cuddled and fed, a class that needs to be taught, a relationship that needs to be tended. I used to hate having any sort of anchors because I wanted to live a wild, glamorous BIG life. But, just like as an artist a creative constraint can be freeing and make the art better, the constraints I’ve chosen to be beholden to, deepen me.
What does living an “ordinary life” mean to you? How do you feel about the idea of being ordinary?
“Ordinary” was a dirty word to me growing up. I couldn’t think of anything worse than being described that way. And my adulthood has been a slow revelation of the magic and significance of ordinary.
The ordinary tasks:
I remember training with a theater director who taught martial arts as part of actor training. He insisted that the class began with preparing the space—coming and sweeping the floor before class time. That preparing the space prepared our minds and bodies. And we also had to thank the space at the end of class. At first I thought this was so dumb. Then it came to be so meditative and grounding. I think of him now when I do any number of mundane tasks, and try to find that sense of connection and magic just beneath the surface. When I clean my house I try to think of myself as a house witch, drawing on the likes of Baba Yaga.
The ordinary places:
Similarly, I sometimes think about how when we travel, we are oriented to see the beauty of a place. Someone could visit where I live and be in awe of what I filter out with familiarity. But I think we can enter that state of fresh eyes with practice. I sometimes pretend I’m a photographer mentally zooming in or framing a shot as I walk my dog along the same path season after season, suddenly aware of how pretty the dew is clinging to a berry or how the ice fractures under my feet.
The ordinary people:
After becoming so depressed from my difficult work experience, I realized the most valuable thing in my life was the relationships I had. Because nothing else could pull me out. Money, artistic success, job titles, all my intellectualizing . . . nothing but friends being present and a social network to catch me made life possible. I stopped thinking about networking for my career and how well-connected or successful a person was or not, and was so grateful for “ordinary” friendship and family. I was thankful for playing stupid board games with my siblings, and coffee dates, and texted gifs, and shared meals, and walks. Before, I often skipped putting time into these “small” things that connected me to people to do the “grand” things like fancy classes and capital “A” Art and career. Now I see these things are my life blood. I can’t imagine anything more precious than someone giving me time or thought.
The ordinary life:
There’s an activist, John Paul Lederach, who talks about how with every great movement of history there had been a slow grassroots change happening over time that made that dramatic moment happen. And all those small moments and “insignificant” people who don’t make the history book are the “critical yeast.” I’ve started to think that’s where I live, being part of the critical yeast. I don’t know what it will yield, or if I’ll ever see it, but I think it matters.
Who is an ordinary person you admire? Why are they significant to you?
I worked for a woman who made very little money running an afterschool program in a low-income neighborhood for decades. I think about how she will never be the topic of a documentary, book, or even local news story and yet I saw how she impacted entire generations of families. So many of her students even came back to experience their first jobs under her, and she taught them everything from their labor rights, to interpersonal skills, to how to do a timesheet. She made sure children learned how to swim, garden and urban forage, how to cook and budget, how to ride public transportation, how to develop their leadership skills, how to advocate for themselves and others. I remember her contracting a child from the neighborhood to teach her students how to make fairy gardens, and she taught her how to write up a proposal and do an invoice. I think the girl was nine years old! She bought students high-quality paints, brushes, and paper and connected them with the local textile center where they learned about natural dyes and sewing because she thought children shouldn’t have to work with crappy made-for-kids supplies. She advocated for children to be involved in anything that impacted them. For intance, the children’s committee she organized to help design the new playground at the park, and she was part of all sorts of local activism and protests, modeling speaking to power. I could go on.
The point being, what she did—and still does—is not fancy or celebrated. It’s on a micro-scale. But the impact is immense. I learned so much about being a radical, value-driven disrupter right where you are from her.
Share something you’ve created lately that you’re proud of:
This was two years ago that I started this, but it felt really significant because I started it as something to focus on while I waited for my overdue baby to be born. I would burn rose incense and listen to music while I tied all these repetitive knots following a tutorial on YouTube at .25 speed. And in my thoughts, I tied up a blessing to my baby in each. It’s imperfect and personal, an example of my love for “micro-art”—art can make an immense impact even for an audience of one.
Thank you, E. Having this window into your ordinary life and thoughts makes my life more meaningful, and I hope it will for people reading this too.
If anything resonated with you in these stories and words shared by my friend E, I would be so grateful if you would join the conversation in the comments or share this post with your friends.
More Ordinary Life interviews are in process and I will share them as they are ready.
Thanks for reading.
—NK