Mundane

Here's what I like about Friday...

I:

• wake up a little later than usual
• dilly dally as I drink my coffee, check out blogs I haven't been able to see all week
• play with Ada
• make a few fruit shakes for the weekend
• visit the Chestnut Hill Market for fresh fruit and vegetables
• feed the birds
• work out
• water the plants
• sometimes write a post
• clean up around the house
• prepare my work and writing for the weekend
• wish I had a friend I could meet for coffee or go shopping with ... just once in awhile ...

Over twenty years ago as I was washing dishes one evening I remember thinking, "There must be more to life than this." I remember it as if it was today, here and now. And, indeed, I remembered it as I was washing dishes this morning. I have given up using the dish-washer. Somehow, it seems ridiculous to pack up the dish washer with dirty dishes for days and then after running it, spend hours unpacking it again.

There have been moments in my life when the mundane wore me down and I would think, "There must be more to life than this." I remember the feeling and picture those moments. And then afterward I ran all over the world searching for the "more." Only to arrive and find that the mundane would be there to greet me once again.

Today I realized that this is life. The mundane, the every day of it, the moment by moment of it, the over-and-over-again-seemingly-meaningless-repetitive-actions of it. This is IT. These consistent little tasks create the foundation for everything else. They give a solid base, a home-coming, and set down roots for all the creative, spontaneous other parts of life as I develop them during the day.

The daily practice of living.

I think back to the grief counseling course I took many years ago. One of the exercises was to imagine that everything we did for that one day would be the last thing we would ever do. The last dish we would ever wash, the last goodnight kiss to our child or life-partner, the last tree rushing by our car window, the last greeting to the mail deliverer. It was a powerful exercise. Sometimes, as I am gathering soiled cat litter into the plastic bag, sighing wearily as I do so, I wonder what it would be like not to take care of Ada any longer, just as I remember the last look Molly gave me as they carried her off to the operating room. Tears fill my eyes and I find myself grateful for each chore I carry out for Ada. Energy is renewed for the mundane, again.

Well, Nora, I thought about what you said, and reply to you here:

I splurge; live each day as if it were my last; life is too short; and I am learning to slow down and smell the roses. Oh yes, I certainly allow myself delicious bread, and chocolate when desired. Oh yes indeed! And all the while I cherish every single, faithful, solid, mundane task and chore that nurture and cares for me and those I care for and about.

A year ago at Tamarika: Intergenerational

Comments

[tamarika]

Mark! Good to hear from you again!

Oh, Tamar, what poignant, beautiful stories you share here. Thank you so much. Yes, death and dying is inextricably linked to the living - our lives - in so many ways.

girlanddog, it sounds like you have experienced some deeply painful times. I like how you say, "Stop and taste the chocolate." Wonderful! I'm rooting for you all the way.

Jean,
I wish you could have coffee with me too - how's about in June, eh? Your comment is as valuable and supportive as the actual sitting face to face in a little cafe in London Town or Chestnut Hill sipping at our beverages and sharing personal stories. Thank you for always being there.

[Mark Daniels]

Good thoughts, Tamar.

Mark

[Tamar]

This post speaks to me, who lost both my spiritual mother and spiritual sister in the past twelve months. Each woman was in my life about forty years, forty important ones! Their terminal illnesses stretched nearly two years, and taking the opportunity to be with them during this time, to "chill," to savor and to relish the past all the way up to the very nanosecond of our interactions taught me about being present fully now.

I, like you, nursed and then, heartbroken, said goodbye to a cat, twenty-year companion, Mica I. Today, I stroke Mica II's coat slowly and deliberately, knowing how good she is, and what joy and calm I get from caring for her. And that she, like all beings, will not live forever.

Meanwhile, my little cousin Ohad, battling leukemia in Jerusalem, is a magnet for my attentions. A recent Bar Mitzva, he is filled with hope and bursting with plans even while he shares openly the harshness of his treatments and subsequent periods of frailty and "time out." Witnessing Ohad's life — gestures, words, actions — in a focused, intentional way, brings this precious soul closer into my focus. And one result of this focusing with intentionality is that more often I am present for my fellows during their most challenging moments. Thank you for your deceptively simple post.

[girl and dog]

I spent the last year of my marriage and the first year of my separation working like a dog, trying to bury the pain and confusion I felt. When last year's wedding season ended in November, I stopped...I just stopped pushing myself and allowed myself to enjoy life for the first time in YEARS! I now cherish every cup of tea, every walk in the park, every cuddle with my dog.

Thank you for a lovely post and for reminding me to continue to stop and taste the chocolate.

[Jean]

I wish I was there to have coffee with you! ... and that I had time to respond to several of your recent posts that have had me thinking deeply - will try to come back and do so.