Ordinary Can Be Astonishing
This was one of those days that feels ordinary while you’re living it—and only later reveals how full it actually was.
At ten this morning, my friend Lauri picked me up and we went to Barnes & Noble for coffee. I had an iced chai and a salted caramel cookie, and we sat there talking about spiritual things for two and a half hours. The kind of conversation that wanders, pauses, circles back, and deepens. We came back to my house and kept going for another two hours, picking up threads and laying down new ones. Time behaved strangely, as it often does when friendship and meaning take the lead.
There was a seizure at the coffee shop—unwelcome, but mercifully brief—and we carried on without drama. That’s part of the rhythm of my life now: interruptions I don’t invite, adjustments I make without ceremony.
After Lauri left, I turned toward the kitchen. Meat loaf into the oven. An organic chicken into the pot with carrots, onions, squash, leeks, herbs—broth beginning its slow, honest work. I planned an apple and cheese casserole and butternut squash soup, though I later decided the soup could wait until tomorrow, when the broth would be ready to give it its full due.
Pain medication helped today. That matters more than I like to admit. When the pain eases, I can move, create, think. Productivity isn’t a virtue to me—but capacity is a gift, and I don’t take it lightly when it shows up.
Earlier, I showed Lauri how to feed sourdough starter and talked about teaching her to bake sometime soon. The starter bloomed beautifully—confident, alive—and I started an Einkorn loaf. Or so I thought. Much later, I discovered I had used almond flour instead. Entirely by accident. And yet—amazingly—it’s rising. If it fails, it will become crackers. Nothing wasted. A small parable, really.
While she was here, we watched part of Before the Wrath, stopping often to talk. As we did, I sketched new designs for TrueWoven Studio. Lauri watched as a hand-drawn idea became a seamless pattern, then appeared on Spoonflower mockups. Her delight reminded me not to become numb to the wonder of making.
I also finally brought all my financials up to date—no small victory—and sent a personal note to a customer who had purchased my Messianic Planner, letting them know about Rooted, Volume 1. No mailing list, no pressure. Just respect. That word came up again later as I reflected on how my parents taught me to move through the world—well-groomed, attentive, other-focused. Not as judgment of others, but as a way of honoring the people in front of me.
By evening, my body made the decision for me. Between pain and the earlier seizure, I chose to skip Bible study at kahal tonight. Rest is sometimes the most faithful option.
As I look at the shape of my life—Once and Future Homestead, TrueWoven Life, TrueWoven Home, TrueWoven Press, Hebrew classes, Bible studies, Shabbat—I’m still a little overwhelmed. And also deeply grateful. Through small, steady practices (kaizen in action), I manage to keep a home, cook nourishing food, do meaningful work, and share daily life with the love of my life, Jeff.
Nothing about today will make headlines. But it held friendship, food, faith, work, beauty, interruption, and grace.
That’s a good day.
