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Wednesday, September 7, 2011

Which Maybe Isn't Poetry


How completely ordinary life is most hours of the day.  On Sundays, the ritual is - grocery shopping, house cleaning, and then cooking.  This past Sunday, there was also baking.  Which I did, and not C. because after the first couple of days of grade 8, she wasn't up for it.  I don't fancy myself much of a cook, but since I do like to eat, cooking there is.  Shrimp and green onion cakes above (a Canadian Living recipe I clipped ages ago).  And below is one from Chatelaine. (Give or take).  


And what's life without a little bit of sweetness?  Peanut butter cookies with Reese's PB cups chopped up and in lieu of chocolate chips.


The thing about all the Sunday cooking and baking and all those mundane chores is that often when I'm vacuuming, say, that's when the ideas come.  They arrive.  So I've learned not to resent all these tasks, but give myself to them.   But still it's strange, how you want to be one thing, a writer, say, and most of your life is filled with everything else.  And the trick is to remember the poetry in it all, and find some time to jot that down.  The way the light is on the floor in the early afternoon as you vacuum, and the steam on a bowl of soup.  The pleasing design on a bottle of hot sauce.  Milk, cold in a glass, how it sends you back to sitting at a table as a  child.  Comfort and warmth and sweetness.  Picking up cookie crumbs from the table with your finger tip after they've been eaten by someone you love.  Corny sweet stuff like that.  Which maybe isn't poetry.  But it's your life, your one precious life, as some poet said.


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