Once upon a time I despised the word ordinary.
Ordinary reeked of boredom, that droning day tagged onto the next and the next.
Ordinary smacked of insult. Nearly so bad as homely or forgettable.
Over these eleven years of life at home with young children, I’ve sometimes relished in the everyday sweetness and other times near drowned in the repetition of my ordinary. The sink full, the counter piles, the lunches to make, the tantrums, feeling that I might be swallowed up by the mundane.
And the tapes that ran through my head as I moved about my repeating tasks — those felt ordinary, too. The ones that questioned my value, my parenting, my accomplishments.
My ordinary might not be the same as yours.
The daily pilgrimage to your job at a desk in front of the glowing screen. Or the cup of coffee and walk to begin. Or another morning in which you don’t want to rise from your bed and put on that knapsack of burdens.
Your tapes might be different, too. Maybe laced with more measures despair, fear or apathy.
Yesterday I talked on the phone with my papa, and we spoke of our old ordinaries of anxiety, perfectionism and regret and the joy that comes in replacing them. With new habits of gratitude and casting eyes up and seeing the light flood in to the present moment, and those ways of seeing become ordinary through the repetition.
And that feels like a small miracle. Anything but ordinary. The very same reality with entirely new songs playing in the background.
Joining up again today with the Five Minute Friday community of friends over at Lisa-Jo‘s where we write for five minutes, refrain from extreme editing and encourage one another freely. Today began with the prompt: ORDINARY. Would you like to join us?