Ordinary Things

Where were you one year ago?
the prompts ask—
nudging us to reflect,
pry open our journals,
our camera rolls,
our hearts and wounds.

What have you learned?
How have you changed?

I am disappointed in myself
to not know the answers
to these very important questions
signaling growth,
gain,
a magical shift
of some kind.

All I can think to say is—
I’m alive.

On the days when I thought
I was going mad,
trapped in this house with the
sounds of three children
whom I love with every fiber
of my being,
but who also know how to shriek,
and cry,
and chomp on cereal in a way
that makes me want to
pound my head against the wall—
on those days,
on those blessed, blessed days,
I’d pray:

Lord, give me gratitude
for ordinary things—

the flame dancing
in the candle on my desk,
wild and unafraid,
illuminating words
nobody will ever read

the fresh taste
of baby carrots
pulled from the ground,
the ones I forgot
I planted at all

the view
from the kitchen sink,
where I stand
licking cookie dough
off a wooden spoon,
watching the camellias
bloom,
beckoning warmer days, 
and also, Hope

This is the gift
of ordinary things—
they hold us,
secure us,
like tiny anchors in the wall
demanding our presence
our attention
our gratitude
while the news runs wild
and the world groans,
but we still have to make dinner
and scrub the pans
and sweep cheerios off the floor.

What a relief
only God knows
what tomorrow will bring.

So lift your gaze up, 
from this page, this screen, 
this same monotonous day
you’ve lived over and over
for an entire year.

Reflect if you wish.
Take a nap if you don’t.

And then,
let yourself be enchanted
by ordinary things again, 
swim in the delight of it all
every gift of grace
as a small act of war—
the birds singing over your head, 
the first sip of morning coffee, 
the scent of your baby’s neck.

And thank the Lord almighty: you survived.

These images are my second attempt at film, a mix of Portra 400 and Fuji 400, all scanned by The Find Lab.