Ordinary

SoulCircle Week — what looks even, isn’t always

Ordinary

There was a line in this week’s prompt that stayed with me.

Not the obvious one. Not the part about noticing.

It was the idea that what feels ordinary to one person might not be ordinary at all to someone else.

That shifted something.

Because “ordinary” isn’t neutral. It’s learned. Repeated. Lived inside.

It’s the shape of a day.

The way things are handed out.

Who speaks first. Who waits.

Sometimes it looks fair from the outside.

Sometimes it isn’t.

This week’s invitation was to write from the point of view of something ordinary.

This is what came.

⸻

Ordinary

I am the bowl of fruit on the table.

They tell the children to taste me slowly,

as if sweetness can be measured.

But I have watched the arguments

carried in from other rooms.

I have seen who is handed first,

who waits.

No one means it.

Still, something tips.

I tilt toward the nearer hand.

My skin holds fingerprints

no one remembers leaving.

Ordinary:

apples, pears, a knife between them.

They do not say

how much must be swallowed

to call it enough.

⸻

I keep thinking about how much of life is like this.

Not dramatic. Not intentional. Not even visible most of the time.

Just small moments, repeated.

Accumulating.

Becoming the thing someone else has to make sense of later.

And yet, there is still care here.

Still feeding. Still presence. Still an attempt at enough.

Maybe that’s part of it too.

Noticing where something feels ordinary,

and asking what it might look like

from the other side of the table.