The Power of Mundanity

“…for the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs.” ~ George Eliot, Middlemarch

7 years ago, Elaine and I bought the best house I’ve ever lived in. It was still being built, almost complete, sitting a block away from where she worked. Buying it was the quickest adult decision we’d ever made together.

I couldn’t wait to get moved in, settle the financials on our other house, unpack, and begin this new, amazing chapter. The Landry’s had finally arrived.

For the first six months it felt like I was living in a luxury hotel. Every single thing was new, fresh, hip; a huge master bed/bath, each kid gets their own room, bathrooms all over the place, two sinks in the kitchen, and a blank-slate yard awaiting my mediocre landscaping skills.

The entire experience was life-changing.

For about 6 months.

Then it felt like my old life showed up on the front porch like a tiny, mangy dog that nobody wanted, who’d finally wandered home. Things quickly snapped back to “normal,” and life began to feel like it always does. Our best house was no longer new, amazing, shiny. It had morphed into something not unlike our old house; a fancy box where we live out our often mundane, day-to-day life.

But I knew this was coming. My 53 years of experience with material possessions has taught me that they never bring appreciable change to life beyond what they cost and the space they occupy.

I’m just as happy/content in our new house as I was in the old one.

I’ve experienced this with cars, toys, careers, physiques, etc. Everything’s new and exciting on the front end, then, in short order, life goes back to it’s old, normal, mangy self.

As many times as I’ve been through this, it’s still hard not to bet a few hopes and dreams on the next material thing. I have a hard time, for example, believing that the newest Lambo Huracan EVO wouldn’t change everything.

It won’t. It can’t. It doesn’t have that kind of power. Outside of the things that keep us alive and healthy, there’s nothing material on this planet that can de-mange this place.

But the belief that they can is the number one cause of American thanklessness.

Already, 7 years into our “new” house, I’m jealous of other people’s houses, wondering again if a newer, nicer, bigger place wouldn’t make things better.

And that’s insane.

Our house is great. There’s plenty of room to stretch out. Our kids can run amok in the basement. It’s close to downtown, Elaine’s work; walking distance to both schools. We’re lucky, blessed to have it. And when I stop and reflect on what I love about this place (like I’m doing now), it feels good, relaxing.

When I’m feeling thankful, the pressure to find “more” is off, and when you’re old and tired, any opportunity to rest in peace this side of the other side is a welcomed one. When I’m not trying to escape my life, or dreaming of a completely different one, I’m present in this one, much more likely to see the power and beauty of what’s happening around me. And much more likely to be thankful for what I have.

You’d think that faith would help me here, but it’s a bit of a struggle. My belief that material possessions possess power they don’t possess clashes with the fact that God possesses power that I struggle to trust. Like all of humanity before me, I’m tempted to make a god out of something that isn’t.

Instead of resting in the fact that God is overthrown by me and will grind whatever grist the mill requires to make sure I get the life I’m supposed to have, I dream of a different one, marked by new and shiny things, full of power and glory.

Amen.

But I’m finally ready to throw up my hands and face the facts of my world, i.e., the universe seems hell bent on forcing it’s mundane, scruffy ways upon us. All of us. Those with the financial power to attempt an escape will go crazy in the process, and spend tons of money in the effort.

As it turns out, however, mundanity is good; it has a purpose. And when we’re not afraid of it, spending everything in our power to escape, we’re more likely to be present to the things that are truly powerful.

I’m personally struck by how mundanity makes it into my memories. When I think about the past 7 days, for example, though they were full of challenges, most of what I remember is the good stuff: driving my youngest kids to school in the morning, sitting with my oldest and having somewhat deep, connecting conversations.

My memory of last week is full of good, heartwarming moments.

To be sure, there were bad things that went down, and I remember them: breaking up a million fights, exhaustion, fatigue, a thousand really boring conversations. But there aren’t any emotions/discomfort/etc. tied to them. It’s almost like the boring, scruffy, discouraging moments never happened.

Those things don’t make it into my memory like the good ones do.

But if you ask me about the coming week, it’ll dig up all kinds of negative feelings. I know that next week will be filled with boring, mundane, seemingly meaningless moments that I’ll have to slog through, over and over again. It makes me tired thinking about it.

But if it wasn’t for the boring, scraggly, who-wants-a-life-like-this? episodes, I’d have no appreciation whatsoever for the other stuff.

Mundanity isn’t a sign that my life sucks, or that I’m living in the wrong one, it’s an invitation to see the good stuff, a vital part of the right life.