Hiding in Plain Sight

I just saw "Hidden Figures," a terrific account of the black women who helped make NASA fly.  That it has taken 50 years for this story to find daylight does not speak well of this land of ours.  And yet. . .

And yet, it happened.  Thanks to courage and grit, smarts and drive, this story happened, even if most of us didn't realize it until just now.   And that, I think, is the point I'm taking home today.  Good does not need the spotlight to legitimize it, although it will blossom when the light finds it.

Three days before a thin-skinned, self-obsessed, pre-Copernican man becomes our president, I have been tempted to turn off the lights and pretend nobody's home.  Tempted to wear my hackles high and pick fights with strangers.  To assume that good will no longer be part of the day's menu.   But "Hidden Figures" reminded me that most things happen behind the stage, away from the bright lights, and that many of those things beckon from very good people doing very good things, often very quietly.

And so, I will hold onto all of the folks who, without even meaning to, have reminded me that there is an abundance of good in this world.  Folks who checked in on me this fall, those who've fed hungry students, tended to tall-grass prairies, stood on the Capitol's steps, fostered tough kids, helped register people to vote, showed others the wonders of thin places, made people laugh and dance and sing, those who've sat with the dying, given their money to causes they believe in. . .  All of these people I know who act quietly and do good in the shadows are part of an abundant tribe, a vibrant throng. And they will still be doing all these things, come Friday and beyond.  Which is why they give me strength and joy and hope, these hidden figures.

And in 50 years, when some stranger discovers one of these small, good stories and shines a light on it?  I am confident that its goodness will sparkle, lifting and sustaining that stranger, just as it lifted and sustained us through these odd days we find ourselves in.

What's Cooking?

Something happened in my kitchen yesterday.  Granted, it wasn't as pretty as the meal I'd made a few months ago (see photo), but it was pretty beautiful, nonetheless.  With the low angle of mid-afternoon sunlight coming through the window, I was watching the cardinals at the feeder while peeling potatoes over the sink. Neat piles of diced onions, sliced carrots and slivered celery awaited their starchy cousin.    

It was a small, quiet moment and I was overcome by the feeling that I'd been there before.  In this place, with these things, happy in my prep work.  

I don't know much French, but I know that I love mis en place--putting everything in its place.   And everything felt like it was in its place, myself included. 

I've made hundreds of weekend meals over the years, working alone in the kitchen with some good music playing and Finn watching from his corner.  It is an easy, well-loved routine of mine.  And that routine found me again, on a bone-chilling Saturday in a brand-new year.

Swimming in the familiar, I somehow couldn't remember the last time I'd made potato soup.  The last time I'd stood at the sink on a Saturday or a Sunday and assembled a meal.  The last time I'd been awash in a beloved routine.  

It made no sense, this feeling.  I make meals all the time.  I'm in my kitchen, at the sink, opening the fridge, looking out the window several times a day.  But there I was, putting on the familiar feeling of deep contentment, wondering how it'd fit as I slipped it over my shoulders.  

The whole weekend, really, has been like that.  Feeling an old, happy groove,  finding a rhythm I'd been missing, synching up with my old self.  The last few months have been like watching a television show where the speaker's lips don't match the words.  I'd been off just a little and then, yesterday, with cardinals fluttering at the feeder, I caught up with me again.  

It was a mis en place moment I hadn't realize I'd been waiting for. And it was delicious.