One Ordinary, Domestic Day
I didn't get time to brew coffee this morning, so I stopped by the cafe on my way to work and bought a lavender mocha to sip while I wrote morning pages.
It's the same cafe where I had lunch with a writer friend last Friday. She'd been having a hard time bringing herself to progress on a novel. I couldn't quite empathize, though I'll likely find myself in a similar position once my children have grown. I'm sure I'll eventually yearn for the days when I had too much to do and not enough time in which to do it. I flourish under this constriction.
Some days I feel like the whole 365-day blogging is taking away from more meaningful work: from the memoir, essays and art. But this weekend these blog posts were the only thing I managed to write. If I hadn't had the obligation of my original commitment to daily blogging and the past 50 days of posts strung along behind me, I might not have written at all. And the writing did me so much good. It kept the words flowing, where otherwise they might stagnate, and it kept my spirits up where otherwise they might flounder and fall. It keeps me tuned into this life with all its daily drudgeries and routines, and open to finding new beauty there.
I've been listening to Anne Truitt's journals on the drive to and from work. They too, are keeping my heart steeped in the beauty of daily life. I got so excited after the first hour that I raced over to my computer and ordered a physical copy of the book, along with Doris Grumbach's journal Fifty Days of Solitude. And once I finish those, who's next? May Sarton, perhaps, or Virginia Woolf, or maybe I'll dip into all of them. A few pages here, a few pages there. Each one a delicious reminder that extraordinary work can come from living and documenting one ordinary, domestic day at a time.