Frankly, it's late. It's Halloween Evening, and I'm in my pajamas. There's a gap in the drapes through which curious trick-or-treaters could see my bra-less self if they so chose. I didn't think of that when I sat down at this computer, but never mind. Tonight I'm resolved to state my Vitamin for the day if it kills me (or the onlookers) - so here I am.
Waiting.
Wishing that some sort of epiphany would hit me, as it has for most of the posts on this blog up till now.
Realizing that sometimes the epiphany doesn't come.
And, in that realization, finding my Vitamin at last.
Today, I salute Vitamin Grind. And when I use that word, I mean it in the cleanest sense. I speak here of the grind of daily living. The grit of existence that brings with it no shining reward, no stardust, not even the glimmer of appreciation from an onlooker's eye. Just pure, un-pretty living.
I speak here of the usualness of awakening in a dark room, knowing the alarm clock has sounded, and endeavoring to wring from myself the strength to emerge from the covers with courage.
I speak of the predictability of preparing breakfast while the house begins stirring around me - the cat pattering about to check for stray spiders ... the children hovering like moths above the heater vent, bickering with each other over trifles ... the water taking too long to boil.
I speak of dishes and laundry, of bathing and soothing my brood, of my passing glance in the mirror and the wry expression my two selves share. We do not meet often, my reflection and I. We both know this should be different. But even that rare occasion - when I stand, resigned before a flattened image of myself, plucking eyebrows, flossing teeth - that, too, has become a part of the Grind.
The Grind, as I see it, lacks beauty almost completely. It is the progression, sometimes slow and painful, of one hour to the next, one day to the next, and week upon week in succession. It is the biting of my tongue when I'd rather yell, and yes, the harsh words when I should have remained silent. It is the relentless knowledge that those harsh words will become my past as soon as they are uttered, and the subsequent pull to make things right.
The Grind, in a physical sense, could be compared to the coffee-making process: Harsh, unbeautiful, too real to be romantic ... and yet so very necessary if resuls are to be achieved.
Nobody extols the virtues of the ear-splitting proess that brings whole beans under the submission of whirling blades, thereby producing that beautiful powder that blends so nicely with water to create America's brew. But nobody bypasses this process, either. The beans must be ground in order to reach their full potency. And though it is ugly, unlovely, and vile - the Grind must take place at all costs.
This day, this portion of my own Grind, was not a bad one. We smiled often, ate well, learned hard, and played freely. But it wasn't a Rockwell day, either. My rough edges showed just before lunchtime. My selfishness surfaced as well. I have not necessarily created a thing of beauty from the raw materials that this day provided, but I feel as though I have taken part in process that's intrinsically necessary in order to get on with the creating. Who can say? Perhaps the fragrance of my tomorrow, or the rest of my today, will lend credene to my theory ... or perhaps the next several hours or years will be more of this daily Grind. Either way, I'll not shirk it. For in the Grind - in the dusty, dark hours - lies a shining truth that dims in the brighter days after: Sometimes life is the sole reward for living, and living the reward for life.
With that in mind, I plan to take this this life I've given, grab it by the shoulders, and kiss it full on ... and turn, smling, back to my Grind.
