Formation in the Practice of Delight

I go through the motions on autopilot. Press the garage door opener. Start the engine. Shift to reverse. All rote. Repeated dozens and dozens and dozens of times.

He catches my eye as I back my Yukon out the open garage door.

Stretched on the porch step, Theodore blissfully, sleepily, soaks in the sunshine. He basks, midmorning, in the perfection of October weather.

I smile. Snap the photo. Motor down the drive as the same October sunshine dances in my windshield.

I’ve been a bit crabby, out-of-sorts. Can’t quite put my finger on why. I’ve been under-the-weather, true. A nasty cold-in-the-chest complete with croupy cough, fever, and chills.

There’s been bad news + a myriad of small, but grating things. Not to mention, all that hangs heavy as humans suffer the horrors of war.

Simultaneously, I’ve also basked. Albeit, stretched on the couch rather than the front step.
Basked all the same.
In home. In slow days. In living a quiet life.

I’ve lit candles. Boiled water. Steeped cinnamon tea.
Baked a pie. Added ingredients to the crockpot for taco soup to simmer. Grabbed sunglasses and ferried the farmer. Coughed and spit in the shower while the steam loosened my lungs.

I’ve read chapters. Switched laundry from washer to dryer. Pressed coffee grounds and ran espresso shots. Added cream and handed the Yeti Rambler off to the farmer.

I admit. The never-ending of the mundane is merciless to me. Somehow, it pressures me with overwhelm. I hold the tension between the delight of creating home and the demands of all the everyday tasks. Dirt and dust. Crumbs scattered across the island…again. Refrigerator shelves dotted with spilled tea stains to scrub. Smudges…everywhere. Moldy leftovers and the need for another meal. Another grocery list.

It’s a thankless process. Meaningless motions. Over and over. Rote autopilot.

The mundane debilitates me.

So for twelve years, I’ve sought to delight in the daily details.
Practiced noticing beauty in hidden corners.
Looked for laughter. Listened for light.
Sipped the tea. Savored the latte. Opened the book. Picked up the pen.
Created gratitude lists and made mention of molten sunlight.
Snapped pictures of puppies, celebrated naps, and rejoiced in baby wheat gleaming in October perfection.

Delighting in offers a bit of an antidote against the inundation of debilitation.

A friend tells me about a class she’s taken. How she’s learned our brains like novelty. I’m intrigued.

It’s a light bulb moment.

An explanation in part as to why the thankless mundane feels so demanding. It’s lost its lustre. The interesting factor long disappeared. Yet, how often, rote and routine save us. Protect energy we would otherwise expend. Offer ease in execution. Allow us access to multi-task.

I can’t stop doing the mundane. It will always be there demanding doing.

But I can start giving thanks for the patterns my brain builds to navigate life in easier and simpler rhythms.

There’s meaning in the mundane after all, it seems.
Purpose in practiced motions.
Help to be had in the unhurried everyday of daily life.

There’s beauty in the call to intention.
Formation in the practice of delight.
And glorious perfection in peaceful slumber on a front porch step.