My friends and I call it "Studio Ghibli-ing our lives". A pile of greasy dishes is slightly less dreadful when you can imagine it lovingly animated with each item plunging into a wobbling cloud of soapsuds. If you can imagine it this way, you find the steps to bring it to a shining sparkly-clean reality become a little easier.
The last lines of Middlemarch are a reminder of what good a quiet life can do: "But the effect of her being on those around her was incalculably diffusive: for the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs."
"Our lesson, then, is this; that those men are not necessarily the most useful men in their generation, not the most favoured by God, who make the most noise in the world, and who seem to be principals in the great changes and events recorded in history; on the contrary, that even when we are able to point to a certain number of men as the real instruments of any great blessings vouchsafed to mankind, our relative estimate of them, one with another, is often very erroneous: so that, on the whole, if we would trace truly the hand of God in human affairs, and pursue His bounty as displayed in the world to its original sources, we must unlearn our admiration of the powerful and distinguished, our reliance on the opinion of society, our respect for the decisions of the learned or the multitude, and turn our eyes to private life, watching in all we read or witness for the true signs of God's presence, the graces of personal holiness manifested in His elect; which, weak as they may seem to mankind, are mighty through God, and have an influence upon the course of His Providence, and bring about great events in the world at large, when the wisdom and strength of the natural man are of no avail."
I wrote this last month, it feels like a very January poem to me. The time of year after the excitement of the Christmas season, when I'm downshifting to maintenance mode, looking at the long slog of winter remaining and hunkering down.
Yeats’ “Crazy Jane Talks to the Bishop” contains the line (probably I am misquoting) “Love has made His mansion in the place of excrement.”
It’s about the incarnation, but I often meditate on that line to remind myself of the sacrality of the everyday. We’re all making our mansions in the place of excrement.
I figure God wouldn’t have done it if we weren’t also supposed to do it, heh.
I have loved this poem since adolescence, when I gobbled up all of Yeats as if the writing were potato chips. "Woman may be proud and stiff, when on love intent, but Love hath pitched His mansion in the place of excrement. And nothing can be sole or whole, that has not been rent." As a woman proud and stiff, brought to her knees often by rents, this has been a faithful companion and reminder, and still is.
Once many years ago, the Girl Scouts hired me to make an emergency visit to a camp where the director had been fired suddenly in the midst of session, and staff and campers were distraught. I met them in small groups and began each session with those lines from Yeats, repeated slowly, and then just listened to whatever was said. To my own amazement (and immense gratitude to the Holy Spirit!), in one session per group, I saw the campers and staff progress through all the stages of grief. This memory still fills me with awe.
"[maintenance work] tends to fall particularly to women (and to be valorized least when women do it)"
I don't mean to be combative but I am not at all convinced this is true. We all do things no one else sees--some ministerial, some not. What makes me so sure that I (or women) am doing more of them than he is (or men are)? Knowing what I know of myself, I find the assertion a little too comfortable to believe.
Instead of placing my attention on recognition or encouragement for the work I do– the work of the everyday maintenance of my family– I place my attention squarely on the task of the present moment. There is no need to remember the importance of small acts of diligence, because that's all that life ever is. Everyday routines with my family members and friends are absolutely sacred rituals, though I doubt they share this perspective!
I believe, based on my own age and changes in perception about my childhood, that your family members and friends will come to share these memories as sacred. Praise to you for not placing your attention on recognition or encouragement.
I always think of the end of Candide, when after weathering all the absurd buffeting of the world and the grand historical figures and forces it contains, and trying to find some semblance of meaning and coherence, they settle down to chop wood, bake bread, and "make our garden grow." It's quite a conclusion, coming from Voltaire. (And the song from the operetta is beautiful).
Liz, your list there reminded me of a poem that an online friend made:
Doing your chores while you’re away / I make the sounds you cause to be made. / The washing-machine, the tumble-dryer, / the hiss of cooking chops.
Washing up in the kitchen / I leave it the way you would leave it. / The table wiped, the sink scrubbed, / the teacups dried.
Hanging clothes on the line / I paint the back garden the colours / you would paint it. Blue of jeans, / jumper greens; the sheets, white.
Folding clothes I find the neatness / that always sneaks into our shirts / and the sweet clean smell of home, / returns.
(Title: Haunting)
And I also remember the response another friend gave: "It seems very October-ish, somehow; Fall makes me more domestic." (Just hearing someone say that... sort of opened up possibilities of being cheerful about handling "domestic chores" ...that don't come as naturally to my mind.)
Two. One longstanding one is the reminder to myself to "get everything looking back at me." That is, truly to perceive each "thing" as having its own subjecthood, not just as an object -- so I can relate to each thing in an I-Thou relationship.
The other image I have is of Marie Kondo tenderly folding and caressing each item of clothing with full attention and love. I confess I don't always fold my laundry this way. When I do, it changes everything.
My friends and I call it "Studio Ghibli-ing our lives". A pile of greasy dishes is slightly less dreadful when you can imagine it lovingly animated with each item plunging into a wobbling cloud of soapsuds. If you can imagine it this way, you find the steps to bring it to a shining sparkly-clean reality become a little easier.
The last lines of Middlemarch are a reminder of what good a quiet life can do: "But the effect of her being on those around her was incalculably diffusive: for the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs."
Long time reader, first time commenter. Newman's sermon called "The World's Benefactors" comes to mind.
http://www.newmanreader.org/works/parochial/volume2/sermon1.html
"Our lesson, then, is this; that those men are not necessarily the most useful men in their generation, not the most favoured by God, who make the most noise in the world, and who seem to be principals in the great changes and events recorded in history; on the contrary, that even when we are able to point to a certain number of men as the real instruments of any great blessings vouchsafed to mankind, our relative estimate of them, one with another, is often very erroneous: so that, on the whole, if we would trace truly the hand of God in human affairs, and pursue His bounty as displayed in the world to its original sources, we must unlearn our admiration of the powerful and distinguished, our reliance on the opinion of society, our respect for the decisions of the learned or the multitude, and turn our eyes to private life, watching in all we read or witness for the true signs of God's presence, the graces of personal holiness manifested in His elect; which, weak as they may seem to mankind, are mighty through God, and have an influence upon the course of His Providence, and bring about great events in the world at large, when the wisdom and strength of the natural man are of no avail."
Thank you for introducing me to this sermon!
I wrote this last month, it feels like a very January poem to me. The time of year after the excitement of the Christmas season, when I'm downshifting to maintenance mode, looking at the long slog of winter remaining and hunkering down.
The way the olive oil pools golden as
you pour it over the fish’s firm flesh
and then the soft squish as your fingers
rub it in, feeling the cold, wet slickness.
The way you pinch the mixed pepper and salt
to carefully sprinkle them— and the way
the salt finds the inevitable cut
on the tip of your thumb and stings.
The way the oven breathes its friendly heat
into your face as you open the door
to pop the tray in, and it feels like the warmth
you should have felt watching the sky turn rose,
purple, and gold behind the stripped maples.
But instead the wind was icy sharp
and you fled back to the kitchen’s retreat
to fill pots with water, to trim green beans
and seed acorn squash and slice crusty bread.
The way not even sunset’s smoldering
glory supersedes the necessary
rituals of dinner.
Yeats’ “Crazy Jane Talks to the Bishop” contains the line (probably I am misquoting) “Love has made His mansion in the place of excrement.”
It’s about the incarnation, but I often meditate on that line to remind myself of the sacrality of the everyday. We’re all making our mansions in the place of excrement.
I figure God wouldn’t have done it if we weren’t also supposed to do it, heh.
I have loved this poem since adolescence, when I gobbled up all of Yeats as if the writing were potato chips. "Woman may be proud and stiff, when on love intent, but Love hath pitched His mansion in the place of excrement. And nothing can be sole or whole, that has not been rent." As a woman proud and stiff, brought to her knees often by rents, this has been a faithful companion and reminder, and still is.
Once many years ago, the Girl Scouts hired me to make an emergency visit to a camp where the director had been fired suddenly in the midst of session, and staff and campers were distraught. I met them in small groups and began each session with those lines from Yeats, repeated slowly, and then just listened to whatever was said. To my own amazement (and immense gratitude to the Holy Spirit!), in one session per group, I saw the campers and staff progress through all the stages of grief. This memory still fills me with awe.
The lines of this poem are powerful!
"[maintenance work] tends to fall particularly to women (and to be valorized least when women do it)"
I don't mean to be combative but I am not at all convinced this is true. We all do things no one else sees--some ministerial, some not. What makes me so sure that I (or women) am doing more of them than he is (or men are)? Knowing what I know of myself, I find the assertion a little too comfortable to believe.
I agree that generalizations about groups are dangerous and never wholly true. Thanks for standing up for this.
Instead of placing my attention on recognition or encouragement for the work I do– the work of the everyday maintenance of my family– I place my attention squarely on the task of the present moment. There is no need to remember the importance of small acts of diligence, because that's all that life ever is. Everyday routines with my family members and friends are absolutely sacred rituals, though I doubt they share this perspective!
I believe, based on my own age and changes in perception about my childhood, that your family members and friends will come to share these memories as sacred. Praise to you for not placing your attention on recognition or encouragement.
I always think of the end of Candide, when after weathering all the absurd buffeting of the world and the grand historical figures and forces it contains, and trying to find some semblance of meaning and coherence, they settle down to chop wood, bake bread, and "make our garden grow." It's quite a conclusion, coming from Voltaire. (And the song from the operetta is beautiful).
Yes, I've prayed with that song sometimes!
“Are there images or exhortation you return to in order to remember the gravity of small acts of diligence?”
A clean kitchen, a made bed, a sanitized bathroom.
Hygiene = infection control and even its elimination
Liz, your list there reminded me of a poem that an online friend made:
Doing your chores while you’re away / I make the sounds you cause to be made. / The washing-machine, the tumble-dryer, / the hiss of cooking chops.
Washing up in the kitchen / I leave it the way you would leave it. / The table wiped, the sink scrubbed, / the teacups dried.
Hanging clothes on the line / I paint the back garden the colours / you would paint it. Blue of jeans, / jumper greens; the sheets, white.
Folding clothes I find the neatness / that always sneaks into our shirts / and the sweet clean smell of home, / returns.
(Title: Haunting)
And I also remember the response another friend gave: "It seems very October-ish, somehow; Fall makes me more domestic." (Just hearing someone say that... sort of opened up possibilities of being cheerful about handling "domestic chores" ...that don't come as naturally to my mind.)
Link to original post of poem: https://kevinswatch.ihugny.com/phpBB2/viewtopic.php?p=941360#941360
(I found it not very search-engine-friendly.)
Two. One longstanding one is the reminder to myself to "get everything looking back at me." That is, truly to perceive each "thing" as having its own subjecthood, not just as an object -- so I can relate to each thing in an I-Thou relationship.
The other image I have is of Marie Kondo tenderly folding and caressing each item of clothing with full attention and love. I confess I don't always fold my laundry this way. When I do, it changes everything.
Liturgy of the Ordinary by Tish Harrison Warren is a great book on this topic!
True!