the sacred ordinary

Years ago I read an art review in the Washington Post about a certain sculptor’s creative process.  Before he worked, he swept his leanly furnished studio.  For about two hours every morning he swept back and forth as a way to clear and steady his mind.  Every day for lunch he ate pea soup, which he both liked and needed, in order to make his saliva viscus.  I remember specifically the word “viscus”.  Then, after lunch, he sat down to create tiny shapes out of tiny pieces of gold, using his viscous saliva in some important way. 

I made a trip to the Corcoran with my then three-year-old son to marvel at these tiny objects wrought from repetitive motion, clear mind, viscous saliva, and gold.  Explaining the preparatory steps to my active preschooler, I hoped to convey the importance of serenity and focus. 

I’m not much of a sweeper myself.  However I fantasize about having a moss garden and sweeping it clean every morning. 

We have small patches of moss in our yard.  My gardening friend, Linda, told me that in order to expand existing moss patches, one must pluck out any blades of grass or other plant that pops up in the middle of the moss.  One must pull the invaders out by their roots. 

And so I did that this morning.  The gentle sunshine was on my back and I knelt to pull out grass and White Man’s Foot, leaving the violets to flourish.  This was a wonderful meditation – listening to bird song and smelling new earthy smells.  I am devoted to this practice and have been doing it for three whole days now. 

This morning I worked for a solid four minutes until I felt it was time to make another cup of coffee and blog about it.

Here’s what I’ve done so far today:

• I showered, computered, coffeed and ate. 
• I ironed and listened to Beethoven.  The later was required by my job.  Otherwise I would not have given myself the pleasure.  Neither would I have ironed.
• I did not say my morning prayers.
• I read about the world’s prisoners and my heart gasped in pity.
• This was in the newspaper, which I sort of read.  Mainly I look at the pictures, which I find are very good.
• I read Lorna’s poem.  She posts a poem on her blog every day and it feels to me as though she writes them just for the two of us.  But that’s only the way I look at it.
• I walked down my street.   When I noticed pale pink roses spilling over a fence, I thrust my nose into one and breathed in pale pink fragrance.
• I thought about my mother and cried a little.  Even after four years - do you believe that?  Can a little crying count as prayer?