The Commonplace is Sacred

To write about something well is to write about something that is specific. This is to write about something with which you have spent a considerable about of time; not only something that has kept you quiet and solemn company on rainy nights, but that you have talked with, grappled with, something that can make you laugh or clench your teeth. To tell the truth is to tell of what you know and understand.

You cannot understand what you have not sat beside on the front step under the dim yellow porch light while swatting flies away.

You cannot understand what has not held your hand in the car on the way to the ER.

You cannot understand what you have not wrapped up in a soft towel and buried in the frozen earth on Christmas day.

You most certainly cannot understand what you haven’t shared a frozen pizza with at a table cluttered with bills and crusty dishes and cups with milk rings in the bottom.

Come sit beside me, child, and let me tell you again that the commonplace is sacred. And then you can tell me about the places and the people you sit with most often.