Barbara Crooker writes about the ordinary, the lovely, the amazing, the sublime. In Ordinary Life, she chronicles an extraordinarily ordinary, iridescent day.
My life, too, often feels ordinary and iridescent. It is an "unexpected gift," and I welcome the quiet, for the pearls of a dull, ordinary life are the result of chafing and pain that has been covered over, healed and transformed with beauty.
Last night, one of my daughters asked me to preview a book from the library. The book (which a review site chirped was geared to ages 12 and up) opened with a graphic and ugly scene in which a young girl is allowing herself to be used in the oldest way. The book is "gritty and real" they say. But, my ordinary days are real, too. They happen. They bring joy. The baby, the roasting chicken, the slow, stolen kiss ... these, too, are real. Graphic and ugly things happen in the world; I've been in the thick of them. I know they are real.
But, I have lived gritty and real, and I have lived ordinary. I will take ordinary. Every, single time. I'll take the kind of gritty and real that includes peeling carrots, cleaning up for the seventeenth time after a child you love so much it hurts, and adoring the moment when you see the father of your children walk through the door.
from Ordinary Life
by Barbara Crooker
I peel carrots and potatoes without paring my thumb.
We listen together for your wheels on the drive.
Grace before bread.
And at the table, actual conversation,
no bickering or pokes.
And then, the drift into homework.
The baby goes to his cars, drives them
along the sofa's ridges and hills.
Leaning by the counter, we steal a long slow kiss,
tasting of coffee and cream.
The chicken's diminished to skin & skeleton,
the moon to a comma, a sliver of white,
but this has been a day of grace
in the dead of winter,
the hard cold knuckle of the year,
Read the whole poem here.
The Poetry Friday round up this week is at Susan Writes.