15 Jan What Remains
When we repainted our kitchen cabinets, most of what lived inside them had to be moved out of the room. My husband carried stacks of dishes to closet shelves and tucked small appliances out of sight, leaving behind just a few plates and bowls and glasses and two coffee mugs. The kitchen felt unfamiliar in a way I hadn’t anticipated. I missed the abundance of things I expected to be there. Shelves of mugs. Different sized plates and bowls and glasses. Pie plates and cake pans and all the things that fill a kitchen over time.
The next morning, I reached for a mug and paused. There were only two to choose from. They stood out in all that space. I picked one up and felt a small wave of gratitude for the weight of it in my hand. I had never noticed it before. Not really.
It was a white mug with a sturdy handle. I lingered as I poured my coffee, aware of its shape, its steadiness, the way it held the coffee. With fewer things asking for my attention, there was room to stay with the moment and the mug a little longer than usual.
When everything was put back, the shelves returned to their familiar fullness. I was glad for the ease of it, and still I noticed something missing. The quality of attention that had appeared in that brief simplicity. With less to take in, more seemed to come into view.