Madness

Due to the economy, this blog is going on hiatus.

I am simply too busy keeping my head above water right now to notice the world around me. Perhaps now is precisely when I need to notice the ordinary most, but it has become one more thing in a list of things to do. Rather than writing about it and taking the space to observe it, I simply need to live life right now.

The blog will resume, someday....

Kitchens

Kitchens are the heart of a home, or at least, my kitchen is the heart of my home. After six months of camping out, my kitchen is once again usable and I am happy. Yesterday found me making granola and pie. Ivan made yogurt. Tonight I will be roasting pork for sandwich meat and making gnocchi with kale. The wonderful rhythms and smells of cooking will fill my house again.

Wood

I adore the smell of wood. When walking into a woodshop, I always take a deep breath to take in all of the different species and their scents.

Perhaps it's because my grandfather was a woodworker or because I have fond memories of building theatrical sets in high school and college. Whatever the reason, driving home last night with a couple of planks made me smile. The car just smelled good.

Breakfast

Breakfast is my favorite meal of the day. All too often, it is rushed and glossed over, but when I have time (or make it) for a real breakfast, I really enjoy it. Especially when Ivan has the day off and we can sip our coffee together.

This morning, it was mashed-potato hash browns and farm fresh eggs. The potatoes had been in our basement all winter, waiting to be used. Mashed potatoes a few nights ago resulted in leftovers, which were easily warmed in a cast iron pan. The eggs were huge and came from our CSA farm's overproducing chickens. A cup of coffee rounded out the morning. I was late to work, but it was worth it.

Crocus

This needs no further explanation: I saw the spring's first crocus today.

Kitchen Sink

You will never hear this again.

Last night, I loved doing the dishes. I have a new kitchen sink, you see. A big, white, double-bowled, enameled cast iron sink. I also have a new faucet with a pull down spray nozzle. Having lost my sink for two days and having put all of my dishes in the shower, doing dishes was a wonderful thing indeed.

I filled one side of the sink with hot soapy water and started in with a new sponge and some good soap. The dishes slid into the water, got wiped, then stacked in the other side of the sink. I sprayed them off and stacked them on the counter, where Ivan picked them up to dry them and put them away. It was the classic domestic scene, complete with a few quick pecks on the cheek for my husband.

I suppose this all goes back to having good tools. They make the most mundane tasks more pleasant.

Work

It seems strange to want to sanctify a good day's work, but as I sit here with a pleasantly tired body from yesterday's kitchen renovations, I am reminded that work is a good thing. I sit in front of a computer most days, my body slumping into a fixed position. It is a joy to do real labor, whether in the house, in the garden, or on the farm where we get our vegetables. I realize that saying this puts me in the class of the "wealthy" or something, one of those people who might, in another time, have said that "the poor" ought to labor because "it is good for them." But that's not at all what I mean.

I respect labor and those who do it. Having had jobs that require great physical strength and gotten a few injuries along the way, I understand how a life of labor can be difficult on one's body. Those experiences put me in awe of people who construct, tend plants, or farm for a living. I appreciate the things they make all the more for it.

Symphony of Noise

The clocks tick, slightly out of time. tic TIC tic tic TIC tic TIC TIC tic tic tic TIC.

The dishwasher slubs through its cycle arythmically, its age readily apparent. Swoosh slub SLUB SWOOSH slub slub slub SLUB SLUB slub.

The noises overlap, moving over and under each other as I lie in bed waiting for sleep. They never quite meet each other, never manage to create a rhythm that's easy to listen to. They jar against each other and against the creaking of the old floorboards as the dog shifts her weight in sleep.

I dream that I am on a ship in a wonderland ocean dreamt up by a dozing Alice. The white rabbit is long gone—only echoes of his watch remain.

A Song

Sometimes lyrics strike me. I shall record them here.

"Tell me, where do I go when I'm homesick for the place that never felt like home?"
-Kelley McRae

Ice

Ice is many things: cold, smooth, treacherous. It is also beautiful, especially when, in freezing, it preserves its crystalline structure. Walking to work this morning, I was looking down, watching for ice and trip hazards (all too common on Brattleboro sidewalks). I saw the most beautiful pattern in a patch of ice, feathery lines forming small arcs fanning out from a central point. If you knit, and know the feather and fan lace pattern, you'll have an idea what I'm talking about.

I carefully sidestepped the ice to preserve its beauty and avoid slipping, and went on my way.

Mud

Mud smells. It doesn't smell good or bad, really, it just smells like mud. That smell means spring in Vermont. Sure, there may be another couple of snow storms between now and May, and the deep ruts on the dirt roads might freeze over, but spring is coming.

We take mud seriously around here. There's a whole season named after it, we devote entire rooms to its containment, and most folks have special shoes just for that glorious mix of soil and meltwater. Early spring mud is entirely different from late summer mud, too. It's stickier somehow, more likely to grab your shoe and refuse to let go.

I'm not generally a huge fan of mud season—it's a mess, it's usually quite gray, and I start to miss my cute shoes after a while. But I can't deny that the smell of mud gives me hope when it first appears in the spring.

Walks

Having a dog is good for many things, but especially for reminding you that the simple things can be the most exciting. Take walking, for example. If the word "walk" is mentioned at all within earshot of Zoe the Greyhound, a spasm of excitement ensues: jumping, wriggling, little noises of joy. Then we walk outside, and Zoe's nose goes into action. Everything must be sniffed and inspected. These days, that often involves Zoe buried up to her eyes in snow as she seeks out a spectacular scent.

Zoe reminds me that even a walk through very familiar territory can be an adventure, since nothing is ever the same, not really. Subtle changes happen every day, whether it's fresh snow, new mud, new buds on one particular tree, or evidence of the passing of another creature. The world around us is constantly changing, and we have only to notice.

A Cup of Tea

It's hard to get excited about Mondays, especially when a spring snow comes in on the heels of such warm weather. This is, in fact, the second snowy Monday in a row here in Brattleboro, and some of us are downright sick of it!

However, I am now ensconced at work with a small pot of tea and a beautiful teacup. These things make me feel slightly better about the weather outside. It's not much, but it's a start.

Sweeping

Good tools are always appreciated. Tools with the right heft, angles, sharpness, and materials always get jobs done faster and better than their cheap counterparts. Brooms are no exception. A well-made broom feels good in your hands and picks up dirt as well or better than a vacuum. For my house, a broom with synthetic bristles works best--the natural bristle brooms just aren't made with fine enough bristles anymore.

I prefer to sweep than use a vacuum. It's quieter, for one thing, and more rhythmic. The broom is more agile, getting into corners and the tops of baseboards and all sort of other places. It's also easier to clean out when it gets dirty.

I'm sure someone has written an ode to the broom, somewhere. Someday I'll find it.

Spring Fever

It was warm in Brattleboro today. About fifty degrees, which is downright balmy in Vermont in early March. It was the sort of weather that made one want to plant something living in the ground, which is still covered in at least a foot of snow in many places. It was the sort of weather that made people nicer.

The early warm days of any given year find people in this town outside enjoying the sun and the warmth. Even with the economy tanking and people worried about their jobs and their mortgages, people seem to have hope on the first warm day of spring. And they are more friendly—more willing to say hello, more willing to hold a door, more willing to let someone out into traffic. Between that and the sun, I couldn't have been happier.

Keys and Locks

New York is a city of keys and locks. In this apartment in an old building, you can hear everything through walls and ceilings. The neighbor left this morning, a series of metallic scrapings of chain on metal, keys in locks, footsteps up concrete steps. Then Ivan left and came back to the same symphony. Meanwhile, car tires on slightly wet pavement and horns provide the background. A strange place, New York.

Snow Squeak

Today it was very cold on my walk to work, and the snow squeaked under my ridiculously inappropriate shoes. Yesterday's mud had frozen in ruts except for where fresh salt had been put down. There, the mud softened and melted and there was no snow to squeak. It was almost as if the mud was remembering our recent warm spell and refusing to give in to the reappearance of winter.

I'm with the mud, tired of winter and ready to be woken up by the weak sunlight and lengthening days.

A Beginning

I want to write a hagiography of ordinary things.

Of teacups balanced precariously on saucers and tiny squirrel footprints left in spring’s last snow. Of a well-balanced knife or a spoon of just the right shape. Of quick kisses in the kitchen and that moment just before sleep when your lover’s hand slips from yours, relaxed. Maybe the way trees speak or dogs dig or children run. Perhaps the smell of laundry, the smell of bread baking, or the smell of sunlight.

What makes the ordinary so sacred? Is it that it is hidden from us by virtue of its everyday existence? Or maybe it is that without it, there would be no extraordinary.

I think it is actually the fact that we pay so little attention to ordinary things that makes them sacred. It takes a certain mind, a certain slowness of step, to appreciate the ordinary; most of us are simply too busy to notice. I try to cultivate my appreciation, to slow down and pay more attention, but it is difficult. Life speeds up and makes demands, doing the laundry becomes a chore instead of worship, walking the dog a hurried exercise in the cold instead of a chance to explore.

My goal is to notice one ordinary thing each day and write about it here.