Last night, in direct opposition to my Buddhist directives of finding peace in the mundane, I was cranking out my domestic duties as fast as possible. In the midst of stuffing my washer with a load of laundry, I noticed a suspicious puddle of water on the floor in front of me. Upon further inspection it became evident I was dealing with what I can only call a minor catastrophe. A hot water leak in my foundation running from the bathroom, through the laundry room and coming to rest under the wood floor of my dining room buffet. The earth work alone is enough to warrant selling this place and moving to a monastery.
I went to bed subdued, to say the least. Life seems so tenuous at times – trying to balance private school tuition for a seventh grader, crazy high water bills, a burning desire for an area rug in my living room. Complicated, of course, by a deep sense of mourning for the loss of my Sephora habit.
Hanging by a thread – not just the monthly budget or retail therapy, but all of it, our health, relationships, our very existence on the planet. Lost in these thoughts I looked up and took in the confines of my bedroom. The walls a creamy hue, the artwork abundant and traded for years ago, vintage pieces from furniture markets, all coalescing in a feeling of easy tranquility and comfort.
It occurred to me then, maybe the thread is not a single-ply piece of cotton, maybe it is silk or has the tensile strength of the anchor line in a spider’s web. Maybe in its delicate presence it is capable such strength and elasticity that it outperforms any man made material.
In the moment of testing that strength, not knowing if it will hold or it will snap, we have a choice – to create and appreciate beauty.
It balances our lives. And it is all around us, all the time.