my studio desk
White curtains of windswept snow swirls were hurrying across the road today as I took the cat home from her annual vet checkup. Daily life is filled with common moments like that ~ stoplights, vet appointments, dusting, paying bills. Some of it satisfies: the wall of finally hung framed things, the room painted, the car cleaned out. Some of it thrills: the bowl of mint ice cream, the cardinal at the feeder, newly painted toes and a letter in the mailbox. But most of it is part of the larger cycle of living, of continuance ~ laundry, dog walking, keeping the logs piled high in the mudroom, cooking, washing. Staying clean, warm, fed and dry takes a lot of upkeep. These things will need to be done again, and then again, for as long as I live. This is part of the rhythm of life.
I've been thinking about my grandmother, about her days raising four children, cooking, baking, washing. Her struggles and challenges and character and how, at the end of 89 years, she had accomplished something. I keep thinking about that something.
She wasn't famous, she didn't invent anything or create anything huge. She lived her daily life with grace, patience and a sense of humor. She looked for beauty and overlooked little petty things. She listened. I wanted to be around her. And that seems enough to me.
I've been asking myself the question lately, when stumped or overwhelmed with things to finish ~ what would this look like if it didn't have to be perfect? If it didn't have to impress anyone or have a bigger purpose than right now? If my day sometimes is just keeping up with the upkeep of living? If my work never becomes well-known or makes lots of money and that's okay? If, at the end of a long life, my life was filled with moments like this and I handled them with patience and a sense of humor?
What if this, this right now, is enough?