An Ordinary Day

I’m not sure what my Kansas grandparents would say.

My midwestern grandparents were all farmers, hardworking, disciplined, stoic. “We had a very enjoyable dinner with friends,” wrote my grandmother in a memory album about the Christmas shortly after she and my grandfather were married in 1942. “Spent the day plowing,” my grandfather recorded in a letter. “Bought some cattle on Saturday.” “Gathered corn” was scribbled by my great-great-grandfather in a journal on November 26, 1903, Thanksgiving Day. “Mended fences. Helped around the house.”

In other words, these reserved and industrious relatives of mine did not indulge in self-reflection, or self-pity. They didn’t take mental health days or schedule massages or other forms of self-care when they felt stress. They didn’t hit the snooze alarm 17 times or practice retail therapy. They didn’t self-medicate with wine or chocolate or binge on Netflix. Good grief, they didn’t even really celebrate holidays.

I, on the other hand, might have been guilty of all those things in the last month. And perhaps other questionable behaviors that I haven’t even yet admitted to myself. The last four weeks have been a difficult stretch, a perfect storm of challenges.

I don’t even need to list the obvious reasons for this. But add extreme cold temperatures and a heavy work schedule and my defenses and discipline quickly start to crumble. All I want to do is crawl in between my flannel sheets with my heat pad, two cats and sweet husband and not come out again. I keep thinking that I “deserve” a treat, or a vacation, or at the very least, to be allowed to live permanently in my pajamas.

Of course, I am not alone. The whole world is longing for a metaphorical mother figure to swoop in, bring us soup and cookies, and fix everything. We feel fragile, vulnerable. Everyone—regardless of one’s political persuasion—seems broken and defensive. Fragmented. Ragged. Even those with some level of influence feel powerless in the face of the chaotic policy changes since January 20. From the sidelines, I watch friends who work with immigrants and refugees deal with upheaval and fear in their communities. “How do you keep yourself rooted and grounded in the midst of all of this?” I asked an adult student who lives and works in close contact with people whose very existence is being questioned by our current administration. “I play a lot of Mozart,” he responded.

I took the cue. I feel like such a small piece of the puzzle, but I try to remind myself that my work is a link in the larger chain too. Perhaps it is my job to offer up practice boxes even when the very structure of our world is falling apart around us. It seems so insignificant, so inconsequential in the face of all the pain and turmoil and horror, but it gives me a reason—most days—to crawl out of bed and start again.

Certainly, the events of the last month continue to give us plenty of spiritual teachers and ten thousand reasons to examine our practices. While it has been so easy to come up with excuses why I couldn’t get to the pool (frigid morning temperatures) or to the Zen Center (frigid morning temperatures) or out of bed (frigid morning temperatures), mostly my soul is weary. Giving my practices some space and breathing room allowed me a bit of rest. I’m trying to honor that truth too.

At the same time, I recognize that too long of a leash here would probably not serve me well either. I might very well think a weekend hiding under the covers would solve everything, but it won’t. There are students that need me to hold the space for their Mozart and scales and chord progressions. There are notes and rhythms that demand my attention and repetitions. There are friends to check in with, cats to feed, plants to water. From the outside, the responsibilities of my life look very different than my grandparents’, but I also have my cows.

Maybe I’m thinking about my Kansas ancestors and their unrelenting work ethic because this last Wednesday, January 29, was Kansas Day. As a child growing up in the sunflower state, this was day to celebrate. We would spend our school days coloring Jayhawks (don’t ask) and the state flag, which, given the intricate and complicated seal, I’m surprised we are not still coloring to this day. We would sing the state song, “Home on the Range,” and recite the state motto: Ad astra per aspera. To the stars through difficulty. Big, important stuff.

But Kansas Day continues to have significance even in my present-day life in New Mexico. It was on Kansas Day, twenty years ago, that we moved into this little light-filled house, making us homeowners for the first time and passionate nesters. This afternoon I will take advantage of the sunshine and warmer temperatures and start my winter garden cleanup chores. It’s time to start gathering receipts and papers for tax preparation. We need a new roof. There are dishes in the sink. I should clean out the refrigerator. In other words: my farm, my cows, my practice boxes.

Kansas Day is also Truffle’s Coming Day, the day she arrived in our family four years ago and started playing tether ball with all the hanging glass objects and jumping off the walls in her quest to become #1 Ninja Kitten. She’s calmer these days, but then maybe we all are. Calmer, older, softer around the edges. There’s more “tinsel” in our hair; our knees don’t allow us to we jump off the walls with nearly as much grace and ease as we once did. To the stars means not fame or fortune, but maybe just a quiet evening at home with a book and a sleeping cat at our side. Especially when life is difficult.

Mended fences, my great-great-grandfather Firman wrote in 1903. Hauled wood. Made rabbit traps. Went to town.  Just another ordinary day, my grandmother said about New Years Day 1943. It was the middle of WWII. My grandfather was in the navy, stationed in Florida. They expected that any day he’d be sent overseas. The world was broken, full of uncertainty and anxiety. Yet Grandma writes, It was quite enjoyable.

Another ordinary day. Taught seven lessons. Worked on the first movement of the Fauré Piano Trio. Did laundry. Shoveled compost. Swept the kitchen floor. Swam laps. It was quite enjoyable.