An Ordinary Day
Today’s one of those days where I feel like I’m living my “real” life, which is the life I take up when I can set my own rhythm, when the phone doesn’t ring (except once which resulted in me ordering FIOS), plans haven’t been made, and the only sounds in the house are the turning of pages (I’m making my way through Journal of a Solitude), the ticking of the clock fashioned out of an old tin tart pan that I bought at an arts fair in Provincetown more than a decade ago, the dragging of ink across a page (I finally wrote down my list of 50 Things to Accomplish This Year and started the lists of movies I’ve watched and books I’ve read), and the plodding of my slippered feet up and down the polished floorboards of the hallway as I accomplish little tasks (take down the Christmas tree in my room, make my bed, write a few more New Years cards, eat the entire box of generic baked wheat snack crackers that was on top of the fridge).
When I texted my sister this morning I told her my plans for the day were to nap and read and nap and read. There was only one nap and I did turn on the TV to watch Wallace and Gromit: A Matter of Loaf and Death on Netflix Instant, but for the most part, today has been about the little domestic adventures: hanging a small amateur painting I bought at a yard sale last summer in the kitchen by the sink, reading the first half of the January issue of Living, Etc. (which is strangely their Christmas issue), wearing the orange bracelet I thrifted on Thursday for no reason at all other than I didn’t feel like putting it away when I unpacked the bag it was sitting in, idly thinking as I watered the three plants that this is the year I will finally repot the plant my friend A. gave me when I came home from the hospital seven years ago, divvying up all the little babies that have rooted themselves since then, each carving out its own little plot in the green pot, the way I have carved out mine.
This morning I was quite taken by the scene playing out across the living room window in the early light. The sun cast the shadow of a branch across the window, with the shadow of a squirrel chasing back and forth across the branch, so that I seemed to have my very own ethereal animated film. I have come to love this apartment though it was chosen for me, my sister and my mother finding a new place for me to live even though no one was sure I’d recover from the severe pneumonia. While I was in the rehabilitation hospital learning to use my atrophied limbs again, the occupational therapist would ask, “What does your bathroom look like?” “How close is your bed to the bedroom door?” Time and again, I’d answer, “I don’t know. I don’t know.”
I hated this apartment when I finally came home to it. It was boxy and ordinary and even the wealth of closets couldn’t make up for its lack of charm. Though the apartment I was living in when I took ill turned out to be a death trap, I’d loved it. It was an English basement of a Victorian house. I painted the floorboards of the bedroom which was off the kitchen, sewed swathes of pink silk to curtain the old-fashioned windows that swung open inward like French doors. I constantly rearranged the furniture in “the great room,” which included a single bed I used as a couch, and sewed curtains for the bay window out of white fabric traced in blue glittery sworls and whorls. I tore pages out of a book of botanical photographs to hang above the radiator, and decided not to mind that there was an actual weed growing through the carpeting directly in front of the radiator. And I spent many nights lulling myself to sleep with a hot bath in the claw-foot bathtub that took up most of the space in the tiny bathroom that you went up three steps to reach.
I knew I couldn’t stay there, in my beautiful neighborhood of hippies and hydrangeas, once it was clear how sick I was, and, in fact, when I was in ICU, I begged my sister not to make me go back there. But still I couldn’t help but mourn its quirkiness and vintage charm when confronted with the quotidian, dingy cream walls of my new place. Now, seven years later, there’s a midnight blue wall in the living room, a shocking pink wall in the bedroom, a collection of crocheted and wool throws I’ve thrifted in the living room, two rugs based on the Gee’s Bend quilts I love, a faux Tulip table courtesy of IKEA, four vintage wooden Danish dining chairs, two Tord Boontje garland lamps—one of the first purchases I splurged on, a pull-out couch that I inherited from a friend and hope to keep forever, a vintage telephone table that I bought for $10 and recently recovered, plants I’ve managed to keep alive, a collection of Eiffel tower replicas including one that’s a combination liqueur bottle-music box, and art everywhere. On weekends, when I can linger in bed, I am often struck by the beauty of the early sun as it chases over my white sheets, and then, when I finally make my way to the living room, pinks the room in a way that is pure joy.
So here I am typing on my laptop, lying on the blue and white couch covered in the afghan my Granny Rosie crocheted for me 30 years ago, having spent the day watching the light move from a shy pink to that clear bright light particular to the winter. Now the outside world is all in silhouette, save for the punctuations of light from the apartments in the building across the driveway. As the twin pines outside my window stand sentry, as I ease into night knowing that the morning alarm must be set for church and that tomorrow evening I will trade this restorative solitude for the sweet balm of the laughter of friends, I am grateful to be an ordinary woman living an ordinary life on this ordinary, magical day.