The Specialness of the Mundane

I was twelve years old when we moved to a small Southern town.  Prior to that point I had spent my young life living on or near military bases, surrounded by and going to school with kids just like me- kids who moved every one-to-three years, and who lived far away from their extended families.

But that's not how things work in a small town.

We moved to this small town, and I suddenly found myself surrounded by kids who had spent their entire lives in one place.  In fact, their parents had also spent their entire lives in that same place, and so had their grandparents before them.  Generally speaking, these generations all lived within five miles of each other, a concept utterly foreign to me.  The native kids and I each pitied the other for our respective inferior life experiences, and they seemed especially horrified by the idea of me only seeing my grandparents once a year, if that.  I told them loftily that I didn't mind, because it meant when I did see my grandparents it was special.  And it was.  There were presents and outings and events.  Cookie-baking and quilt-making and swimming in lakes and oceans.  Very special whirlwinds of time, and I cherish those memories.

I currently live about three-thousand miles away from that small Southern town, and consequently my mother.  This obviously means that I don't get to see her as often as I might like, which in turn means that when she does visit it is, as I always insisted, special.  Because that's what rare and valuable things are.

But here's the other thing about special- your concept of it changes.  So yes, when we got up somewhat early this morning and had an outing to the Farmer's Market to find Rainier cherries, only it turned out that the Hawaiian Cultural Festival was going on so we got to experience the fun and excitement of that, and my mom flitted from booth to booth buying presents for everyone including myself... it was something out of the ordinary, something special.  But more special, to me, was me standing in the kitchen making ice cream, being able to glance up and see my mom sitting out back with the dog, reading.  More special, to me, was the moment I myself sat in the sunshine, calm and at peace knowing my mom was napping and my husband working on the new fence.  Special no longer means spending every possible moment Doing Something Together, but rather savoring the knowledge that if I wanted to, all I have to do is walk into the living room.

the ring Mom bought me