It is intriguing to me that a person can be–and should be–of extraordinariness and ordinariness without blinking. That it is so deeply sown within our make-up to be and become what we are most–our completed form–and our common form at once. It is not to say, of course, that we ought to strive for incompleteness, by any means, but that what is “common” are those things which we overlook as being of less value: those who we have sent into the depths of space did leave us and find what they sought, but they also went with hunger, thirst, sadness, joy, and many other common things, things which do not distinguish us, but rather unite us.
King David ruled as that eastern land’s first great king, yet became as tired and weary as an infant. Martin Luther King fought to see justice restored to the land which he loved, and his legacy will not be forgotten quickly, yet he tripped on the edge of an upturned carpet, wore clothes of common quality, and knew loss of sleep. These people, and many, many more, left legacies of admirable quality, yet could not feed themselves without the earth bringing forth its kindness.
They could not live as gods to themselves. Even those who performed great atrocities could not live without the yieldings of commonness, those gifts given by God. It is good, I think, to assume both to be common and uncommon, ordinary and extraordinary: that we would leave behind legacies worthy of remembrance, and that our own children would still recognize our presence even by the sounds of our footsteps outside of their door. Here is to the extraordinary ordinary.
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