“There is no shortage of good days. It is good lives that are hard to come by,” Annie Dillard wrote. I think about this as I work. It is not a good day. I am tired to the soles of my feet. The work pulls me deeper into the night and won’t let go. I trudge on.
I daydream about good days: the exuberant pleasure of a day spent swimming in the ocean, or reading books, or sitting over long, leisurely meals with friends. I think about good days as I load and unload the oven, as I stack dishes from the drying rack, as I sweep and mop the floor, wipe down the counters, scrub the sinks, and carry the compost out into the dark alley. They’re Sundays, all, and sweet and sunlit in my mind.
But of course, I don’t live a life of Sundays. I wouldn’t, even if I could, though the weeks between are often blurred by schedule and repetition. Is that what Dillard meant? That the days of sun and pleasure are easy enough to find, if you have the time and inclination. It is adding up the days between, weaving the hours and their mundane tasks into the fabric of a meaningful life, that is the great and difficult work.
“How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives. What we do with this hour, and that one, is what we are doing…Each day is the same, so you remember the series afterward as a blurred and powerful pattern."
See you soon.
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