I like the real thing. More specifically, I like the real thing when it comes to the mundane. For other aspects of my life I prefer fantasy (otherworldly novels, dream-inspired art, themed evenings). It’s the little details of my day–the objects that I feel against my skin, the scents that I catch, the backgrounds–that enrich me. I prefer it all to be beautiful. And so far, in order for something to be beautiful in my mind, it almost always needs to be natural–whether nature-derived, the actual real thing, or merely crafted in a human way–in a respectful way.
Sometimes I feel like I’m creating a work of art out of my mere days, or trying to. They’re anything but profound, but they’re thought about, controlled in an artistic manner of sorts, and critiqued. I edit and revise my routine and habits (and that of my children). I question everything. I perfect some details, and let others run wild and free. My lifestyle is a project. And making art, or making beauty, is engrained in me.
The ordinary details make up most of life. The wet kisses from my children, the steam rising from my morning cup of coffee, my daughter’s wooden toys that she carefully arranges, our burning incense, my husband’s books that migrate around our home, the sweet lip balm that I smear onto my lips. All of these things make impressions, over and over. And again, I expect all of these details to hold beauty.
When I open a bottle of Cabernet for Jared and I to share on the balcony, as the sun sets and our little children play, I expect more beauty. It’s needless to say, but if the cork is fake, I’m a little disappointed.