Finding Presence in the Ordinary
Oh, the smell of sawdust—one I can only describe as both warm and smoky-sweet. It’s amazing how a scent can transport you to a completely different place in time.
For me, it takes me back to my grandfather’s woodworking shop, where concrete floors were covered in sawdust left behind by the pieces he made for my grandmother to paint.
I can almost still hear the hum of the saw and the whoosh of the overhead fan. I miss that place. I miss them.
THE SACRED IN THE DOING
In a culture often described as a “rat race,” I sometimes get emotional thinking about the quiet passage of time that unfolds in the mundane. The ticking off of to-do lists—whether self-made or handed down by a boss or spouse—can make each day feel like a string of checkboxes instead of a life being lived.
But somewhere in the repetition, in the routine, in the wood shavings on the floor and the paint-streaked apron, there’s meaning. There’s joy in the doing—not just in the being done.
We often think joy is waiting for us at the end of a project. But more often, it’s hidden in the process. In the slow, sacred work of our hands. In the cup of coffee while the paint dries. In the quiet conversations during moments of problem-solving—not because the books balance that month, but because you shared the effort. In the hours spent “fixing” not for recognition, but because it brought peace. Because it made something—anything—better than it was.
WHEN PRACTICE BECOMES JOY
My husband and I planned a family vacation a few months ago. As part of the trip itinerary, we hoped to rent bikes with our young kids and cover some decent distances. The vacation itself was only seven days long, but we had hopes of fitting in three long bike rides. But I knew that if our kids weren’t prepared, it wouldn’t be fun—it’d be stressful. So, we practiced. They did lap after lap around the neighborhood while I chased them. It built stamina and confidence. And you know what? That prep time became its own kind of joy. We laughed. We complained. We grew.
It wasn’t the destination at the end of those three little rides. It was the bigger space in between—in the laps around the block.
WHAT WE MISS—AND WHY IT MATTERS
I’ve spent quiet moments reflecting on what’s missing.
I miss sitting at kitchen tables with loved ones who are no longer here.
I miss chasing toddlers who just wouldn’t sit still.
I miss eating cheeseburgers with coworkers who were also friends, after a long, hard week of work.
But in those moments, I’m learning that the ache of missing is really a reminder—to stay present. To stay firmly planted right here, right now, soaking up every tiny particle this life has to offer. It’s in these ordinary moments, the ones that slip by unnoticed, where the real stuff of life lives. Where meaning takes root. Where joy quietly hums—like a distant saw in that woodworking shop so many years ago.
