An Ordinary Day

'field notes from ordinary days'

In the bleak winter skies, I see light—not enough. Not a healing light. Not yet. My candle burns as I write, bringing hearth warmth to my desk and to the keys I tap.

I slept until 7:30 a.m. I don’t recall when I’ve slept that late. Missing the darkness before dawn shortens my day; daylight leaves about 5 p.m. What is it I believe I’ve lost? Time?

And why does that matter?

Nothing truly dramatic happened—that may be the point.

Today is an ordinary day. Yet there are no ordinary days. Slow, fast, happy, anxious, sorrowful—I am familiar with them all. Surely, this past year has taught me that.

I have work ahead: Write. Image creation. Prep food.

I pause.
I listen.
I feel a profound presence that resists definition, asking nothing but that attention be paid.

I reach for creative clarity, wanting to write about what haunts me—a weaver, a loom. The image persists: a tapestry in motion. My mind swings between the cosmic and the singular. Is humanity woven together into one vast cloth, the heavens shifting as we change?

The sky feels dark—not winter-dark, but a deeper darkness that exists even under blue skies. Light exposes us at our best and worst. These days, we witness the unacceptable.

I am not unaware of what is unfolding in our country, in the world. I cannot bear to take it in endlessly. All I can do is continue to write, to offer a different lens—one that asks us to go gently.

These things call to me now:
Create an image.
Sit with what will not yet be written.

This ordinary day asks nothing heroic of me.

Only that I stay present long enough to pay attention, listen to what has not been said.

‘Go Gently’ is a free publication.

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Thank you for reading, and for staying.

—Lee Anne