There is nothing that is ordinary
I have no idea how many breaths I have taken today. Now breathing is really quite normal to me. As is blinking and whole host of other voluntary and involuntary functions and activities. Most of these things I do every day: tooth brushing, lunch making, ear cleaning, coffee making.... There are classes of functions and activities that are not daily events: running, playing catch, reading, dinner making, blogging, volunteering, meditating....
Now, I tend to lump the non-daily events and functions into a special category and draw a particular strength from them. I anticipate them and cherish them because they are unique. They are so special that I may even prepare for them, order my life around them to the point that I accept and reject other opportunities that come my way so that I can engage in them. These are the things that bring particular meaning to me so much so that I can gauge my well-being against whether I have been able to engage in them to one degree or another. I can be in dismay at times as the "ordinary" things can be so voluminous that they can crowd out the non-ordinary. How often have I said, with mild sadness, that I have not had time to blog or meditate in a week or two?
More difficult still is for me to see the extraordinary in the mundane. Now there are certain pieces of art that cause me to be still, to pause, and to reflect on what I thought was real. They are so profound that they cause me to re-define reality. Yet, these experiences are so few and far between. How much less is the art of the movement of my hands underneath the water of the faucet as I wash them? The cascade of the water splashing against them and into the sink as it swirls and dances down the drain? Does this need to be captured in slow motion video or in watercolor and hung on a wall in a gallery for it to ascend into the realm of the extraordinary or made into art?
Does the trace of my finger through my hair have less meaning than a Glass-Tharp ballet? Is the throbbing music more profound than the sound of the scratch that echoes through my skin and into my ears? Must it be relegated to a recording and available on iTunes or Vimeo for it to attain beauty? Must it be interpreted by a choreographer or realized by a composer for it to be recognized and contemplated?
The Artist has made nothing ordinary. The sound and stench of the wind as it touches my face is not vulgar. The rising and falling of my chest, as slight as it is, as I fuel my body brings me just as close to the nature of the Divine as any concerto.
The spot I missed shaving today is pregnant with meaning. It is a living display. This is the live performance of my lifetime.
Now, I tend to lump the non-daily events and functions into a special category and draw a particular strength from them. I anticipate them and cherish them because they are unique. They are so special that I may even prepare for them, order my life around them to the point that I accept and reject other opportunities that come my way so that I can engage in them. These are the things that bring particular meaning to me so much so that I can gauge my well-being against whether I have been able to engage in them to one degree or another. I can be in dismay at times as the "ordinary" things can be so voluminous that they can crowd out the non-ordinary. How often have I said, with mild sadness, that I have not had time to blog or meditate in a week or two?
More difficult still is for me to see the extraordinary in the mundane. Now there are certain pieces of art that cause me to be still, to pause, and to reflect on what I thought was real. They are so profound that they cause me to re-define reality. Yet, these experiences are so few and far between. How much less is the art of the movement of my hands underneath the water of the faucet as I wash them? The cascade of the water splashing against them and into the sink as it swirls and dances down the drain? Does this need to be captured in slow motion video or in watercolor and hung on a wall in a gallery for it to ascend into the realm of the extraordinary or made into art?
Does the trace of my finger through my hair have less meaning than a Glass-Tharp ballet? Is the throbbing music more profound than the sound of the scratch that echoes through my skin and into my ears? Must it be relegated to a recording and available on iTunes or Vimeo for it to attain beauty? Must it be interpreted by a choreographer or realized by a composer for it to be recognized and contemplated?
The Artist has made nothing ordinary. The sound and stench of the wind as it touches my face is not vulgar. The rising and falling of my chest, as slight as it is, as I fuel my body brings me just as close to the nature of the Divine as any concerto.
The spot I missed shaving today is pregnant with meaning. It is a living display. This is the live performance of my lifetime.
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