Remarkable in the Ordinary

 

My dishwasher has been out of commission for a while and I have discovered the odd sense of well-being that comes from standing at the kitchen sink looking out the window while washing dishes.  Those moments in front of the sink, doing an ordinary task that takes no thought or planning, can be moments out of time, where the sights and sounds outside the window transport me to another place.  I think they call it daydreaming.  Or remembering.  Or sometimes planning.

Frederick Buechner, one of my favorite writers, has a book, The Remarkable Ordinary, which I am re-reading right now as part of my early morning on the swing.  The book reflects beautifully on how we can pay attention to the remarkable things right in front of us and as a result, to watch for the remarkable in the ordinary. 

A kitchen window gives a wonderful view of the march of the seasons, from the bare limbs of winter to the gauzy green of new leaves in spring, expanding into thick canopies of summer foliage that hide my neighbor’s barn from sight and give shade to the deer, the rabbits and the squirrels below.  Then the unseen signal goes out and the parade of fall colors begins, ending with the shedding of dead leaves to carpet the ground and protect the wildflowers and grass beneath the trees during another winter.  A remarkable succession of seasons, set in motion by a creator long, long ago and taken for granted by most humans.

Sometimes in the early morning light, I catch sight of a spiderweb etched with dew, an ordinary construction by a spider, but remarkable to me.  The intricate weaving of the web stretches from a twig of a crepe myrtle to the old wire fence around my yard, put in place overnight by an ordinary tiny being doing what ordinary spiders do.

There are all kinds of remarkable, ordinary things to see. On my way to the barn, I notice tiny ferns clinging to the crevices in an old cistern with wild strawberries scattered below.  The wild strawberries have been there as long as I can remember – I don’t know how they got there or how they have survived.   The cistern has been there longer than I have, as have the brick reservoirs under the back steps.  I have a vague memory of watching my daddy using a portable pump with the cistern to water the garden, but its main use since then has been to spread walnuts on to crack with a rock.  I have no memory of the brick reservoirs, how they were used or where the water went that presumably filled them.  I guess I never asked. 

I sit on the porch listening to a storm come in.  The thunder’s rumble and the rain moving across the pasture to the garden are ordinary events, but remarkable to see and hear.  The dripping leaves make music to the ears that take time to listen – an ordinary sound that brings a drowsy sense of peace when the storm is over.

I watched an eaglet fledge the other day on a live cam on the internet.  I discovered these eagle sites several years ago and have loved watching the nest building, hatching and growth of these magnificent birds.  This year, for this particular nest, has been a year of tragedy.  The disappearance of the male eagle shortly after the hatching of three little eagles and the subsequent loss of two of the babies has been discouraging.  But the survivor took flight last week, an ordinary event in the ordinary life of an eagle and remarkable to witness.  The eagle had been preparing for this moment for weeks, exercising his wings and eventually “branching,” hopping to a nearby branch and back to the next several times a day.  On this day, he spread his wings and let the wind fill them, then hopped to the edge of the nest, trying out the wind in each direction.  He hopped out and back in, eager to follow instinct’s call but not quite sure he was ready to fly.  Suddenly, his wings spread and he was off, soaring out of the camera’s sight, off into the skies.  Eagles have fledged just like this for centuries, an ordinary part of their life cycle, but so remarkable to us – earth bound creatures that we are.

I can’t remember who said it, but I read one time that if a sunrise happened only once a year, everyone would gather outside to see it.  I have read before that there were primitive people who did gather at sunrise, to sing and chant encouragement to the life-giving sun. 

They must have known how remarkable the ordinary can be.  Sunrise, sunset, moonrise, the parade of the stars across the sky, the ebb and flow of the tides – ordinary events that happen day after day, year after year, so ordinary that we take them for granted.  But when you think about it, it is remarkable that we know exactly when they will happen, to the minute.  We can plant our crops by the seasons, we can sail our boats according to the tides and even guide our way by the stars.  We can see the remarkable in the ordinary, if we stop and look.