Another day slips away. Time, relentless gritty granules in the proverbial sand timer. And here we all are. At different points in our journey. For which, each and every day when the evening closes into darkness, we take stock. Of where we are. From whence we’ve come. And where we are headed tomorrow. It is a pilgrimage, this journey. A rite of passage from one day to the next. A walk that does not end. For there is always tomorrow. And for tireless travellers who cannot find rest from the itinerary, weariness sets in. From day to day the weary ones travel in and out of seconds, minutes, hours. Setting goals. Checking off the items on the list. And then beginning again. The arduous process of living through it all the next day. And the next day. And the next.
And one is wont to know: is there any variation to be found? Any break in the cycle of the mundane? The everyday ordinary-ness?
And do we know of which we ask?
Sometimes what is mundane is the very thing we need the most. Ask the mother who has lost a precious child. As her if she wishes for the routine, the usual. Ask the woman who has just been diagnosed with cancer. Would she trade it for an ordinary day? Ask the girl who has been robbed of the sacred, the vestiges of innocent youth. Would she rather a common, ordinary day?
Sometimes it is the commonplace, everyday things that bring us the most quiet pleasure. And we often under-estimate the blessing that is an ordinary, mundane day. Until it’s gone. And we are left living the unimaginable.