Beauty In The Ordinary

After a particularly hard parenting day years ago when my ability to navigate the new waters of tantrums felt completely inadequate, I found myself doing the laundry. The obvious rhythmic task that I could do in my sleep felt like a relief compared to how overwhelmed and confused I felt in other areas. As I bent down to grab a handful of dirty clothes out of the hamper, to throw them in the washer, I dropped a pair of pants. As I picked them up, the sheer smallness of them astounded me. 

These pants were tiny. For a tiny person. And in that moment I gained the distance I needed from a confusing situation. This tiny person had been so hard for me that day- confused the hell out of me, and I didn’t know how to parent them. But as I held up those tiny pants, I was reminded in a moment how very tiny this child was. And everything became clearer. This tiny human was such a lovable tiny mess, and one I could learn how to guide through this. This tiny human, whose tiny pants I was holding was just a bundle of a toddler that I would soon figure out how to parent more effectively.  I suddenly could see my child more clearly. It was that afternoon I started practicing the still life moments in my world. 

I often find tiny still life moments of my kids throughout the house. I have come to think of them as tiny paintings. The way an artist would set up a perfect picture to paint with a wooden bowl of fruit in the perfect light from a window - that is how I have come to see these tiny moments that give me perspective. These paintings are an exercise in perspective, the appreciation of ordinary moments, beautiful and divine. Like a tiny pair of doll shoes left on the end table from a serious imagination time by a little soul who is at school now. A teddy bear tucked into the messily made bed by a child who thought the teddy needed to stay warm. The hairbrush and hair ties. The tiny animal figures left on the counter with crumbs from breakfast still all around them. The toys in the kitchen, the helmet thrown down in the yard lying there long after they are all in bed.

These still life moments stop me. And I think how I almost missed them again. Because every day is a busy day. Every day has clamoring demands, and unrealistic expectations, and triggered insecurities, and real life worries. And I almost missed them again. And in these beautiful still life paintings left behind from the hustle and bustle of the day, I see it: how lucky I am to be their mom. These are tiny gifts to me. My moments of finding the trinkets and toys left behind stop me and show me everything in an instant. 

It is often in the distance that we see up close the ones we love the most. My husband’s guitar pic on the nightstand, or the ground coffee left ready in the machine for me the morning he leaves to go out of town. The garbage cans at the street before he goes. His favorite sweatshirt on the bed, his sunglasses forgotten in my car. I see him. 

I think that is part of why photos are so powerful. The distance, the angle of their face from that side, and the capture of their smile just in that way. We see them. We see the people we love.

Frankly sometimes life is too loud and too fast for my taste. I get overwhelmed by the noise and hurry of it all, and sometimes feel like I’m swept off of my feet into the current, no longer having a footing. And I can miss them. These people I love the most, that I am so lucky to love.

When the current stops for the day, or when I can swim to shore for a moment, when there is a silence, I look for them. I look for the evidence and the unexpected beauty of the people in my life. I want to see them in the distance I have now. I need to pull back my view. And notice the painting that I missed in my rush. The perfect way his favorite coffee mug is left by the sink. The little boots left by the door after a quick outfit change. The dog leash dog toy discarded in the middle of the room, the text message with the inside joke. The beauty of this people I get to be in life with. 

This is my gratitude practice. I often take pictures of things like the tiny panda toy that is wearing a blue diaper left next to the half eaten toast. Or the sweet love note to their mommy left on the counter made with dulled crayons, which also colored the counter. I want to ingest the beauty I have stepped back to notice. It is in the quiet that I hear the heartbeat of how lucky I am to love them.

This is my gratitude practice. Noticing the still life paintings I am surrounded with. The crumbs and crumpled napkins left on the table from a dinner with friends. A sign of a long and warm conversation. The wine glasses in the sink, when my visiting family leaves, a sign we were together.

It is the ordinary. In the quiet ordinary that I see the still life, the painting I almost missed. Almost as if some intentional artist has carefully aligned everything just right to catch the beauty of this ordinary moment of life.

And I don’t want to wait until a chapter is over to look back nostalgically. I want to live in the nostalgia now. The little girl whose head is sweaty as she naps beside me now as I write, her baby doll and constant companion draped over her shoulder; she’s tired because she stayed up late for her big sister’s sleepover. I breathe in the gift of typing quietly and not being able to move my elbow because I don’t want to wake her.

We often expect ourselves to be in two states at once. Rushing out the door late to a meeting or soccer practice, and feeling gratitude. It’s not that this isn’t possible, because it is. It is just that we overcomplicate it. Let the hurry be the hurry. Let the still life, where you see it all - pull back to see...the muddy cleats, the soccer ball rolling under the car, or the sunrise on the way to the meeting- be the moment you feel the gift of a life where you are well enough to hurry in. And that still life, like any beautiful painting, will set the tone, set the mood, throw the light onto the rest of your life.

We overcomplicate gratitude. It is simply a stepping back and noticing. It is seeing the painting we are already in. It is finding the moment, despite the hurry, to step back and notice the crumbs and the cleats and the babydoll bootie. Finding the moment to see it, and frame it, and to love the painting you are in.

And the same goes for you. You are someone’s still life. Now maybe your life looks different than mine. But I believe each of us were created in great detail and love. And that frame around you -  your eyes crinkle when you laugh, your messy hair in the mornings, the way you hold your pen, the way you sign your name, the way you love the people in your life. You are a painting created in wonder and love.

I am wishing you moments of stillness to see the still life paintings. The way the light is just right when you notice them, and the way the light fills your heart when you know that you are a painting too.