The Mundane is Sacred

This is the opposite of escapist reading. Knausgaard plunges you into the material world, not just with his choice of subjects — apples, adders, tin cans, faces — but in the telling. He narrates and philosophizes as he empties the dishwasher, boils macaroni, combs lice from a child’s hair. A whole entry is sparked when a daughter loses a tooth and gives it to him — it’s not her first, and thus has no drama for her anymore. Knausgaard is left holding it and wondering why we stop marveling at loose teeth, why we stop marveling at the world. This becomes the central preoccupation of the book: to restore our sense of awe, to render the world again strange and full of magic, from loose teeth to rubber boots to hardened pieces of chewing gum (“which with their grey color, hemispherical shape and many little indentations resemble shrunken brains”).

Parul Sehgal is reviewing Knausgaard's book "Autumn." I suppose it can become tiresome, after a while, consciously viewing our everyday surroundings with awe. 

Yet as the world spins its wheels as busy, busy, busy—we forget why we are so busy to begin with. We neglect the quality of life we are supposedly seeking. My neighborhood has burst into annual bloom, and most of the blossoms only remain but a few short days. Gazing upon such short-lived beauty soothes the soul. It would be to our benefit to actively seek out all forms of wonder.

In one scene, Knausgaard’s daughter throws up on him on the subway: “The stench filled my nostrils, and vomit was dripping slowly off my jacket, but it was neither disgusting nor uncomfortable, on the contrary I found it refreshing. The reason was simple: I loved her, and the force of that love allows nothing to stand in its way, neither the ugly, nor the unpleasant, nor the disgusting, nor the horrific.” 

We cannot selectively love. A person is composed of many parts, and as we cannot selectively numb emotions within, picking and choosing what aspects we love in another is not possible. When a girl says, "I want to be loved for who I am," she must acknowledge that she also has annoying parts, as does her future significant other. 

Children, especially, like Knausgaard's barfing baby—the love must be unconditional. They are also sources of an ever-flowing vat of wonder. 

Wajahat Ali was preparing for hajj, yet the demands as father of two small children were interfering with his mindset.

I recently complained to my wife about how our kids’ sleep schedule (or lack thereof) was stealing the time I needed to be truly ready for this moment. I immediately felt guilty. It occurred to me that I had to think of these frazzled pretravel days — and all of our days — differently.

After all, what’s the point of saying, “Here I am,” when you’re not present at home? What’s the point of seeing the Kaaba if you can’t appreciate the miracle that is two manic munchkins running around after midnight?

. . . part of me believes I still have a chance to do it right — starting before I leave. That means watching another “Paw Patrol” episode with patience instead of resentment, and bringing renewed energy to being the kind of dad who will return to kids who have actually missed him.

. . . I hope to return to my family in Virginia, see a bag of soiled, affordable diapers in the trash near the doorstep, hear the voices of babies who are gearing up for another all-nighter, and smile, grateful to be home.

The mundane does not interfere with the sacred. The mundane is the sacred.