The ordinary made sublime
Most afternoons, at 2 or 3pm, I walk my dog Maggie through the stretch of bush opposite our house. Here — her snout plunged into damp eucalyptus leaves as she sniffs for bugs — she is content. When we walk, she is right here in the world. She does not yearn for anything. And, in these simple moments, neither do I.
In a year where chronic illness, work-related burnout and a pandemic have left me depleted and overwhelmed, this most ordinary excursion has been a balm. My loungeroom, with dog hair strewn across the floorboards, has been a refuge. My rundown kitchen, a place of nourishing creativity.
“Some of the most extraordinary things about life are the ordinary ones,” writes Rainesford Stauffer in her recent book . But in a culture that prizes being extraordinary over
