The Painting I Can't Remember That Changed My Life

If a piece of art changed my life, I would remember what it looked like forever.

Right?

I recall so many other details about that day. It was November 2016, and I was visiting the Skirball Center, a Jewish cultural institution in Los Angeles. There were several art exhibits to explore—a life-size Noah's Ark, for example, and an interactive living room created to look like a Liechtenstein. But the life-changing realization took place in a collection of paintings (I think they were paintings?) that taught about daily life in Jewish worship.

"You think they were paintings? You don't even remember that much?" I can hear you ask, and I agree! It's crazy! I mean, I remember feeling captivated by what I saw, even though the scene in the artwork was an extremely ordinary one—a woman baking bread, perhaps? It was some sort of daily chore, accompanied by information about the exhibit titled "Daily Life: Deeds that lead to holiness." I did make note of this quote:

"Judaism has been called a religion of the ordinary, because it focuses on concrete realities. Spiritual meaning is found in the tasks and responsibilities of daily life. Even the smallest act of kindness can transform the ordinary into the sacred. ... A Jewish teaching asks, 'Where is God?' and answers: 'Wherever you let God in.'"

Those words, combined with the art, struck me in a powerful way. Because I pretty much hate tasks of daily life. Maybe hate is too strong a word. But the entropy of mortality definitely frustrates me. Here's an example: I was the kind of kid who wanted to sleep on an already-made bed, even if it was less comfortable overnight, just so that I wouldn't have to make it again the next day. Or I argued against making it at all. What was the point, if it was just going to be messed up again night after night?!

Fast-forward to me as a grown-up at the Skirball Center, and I suddenly realized how much that all-or-nothing attitude poisoned my worship. I often felt like things had to be "just so" or a big deal in order for my worship to be beneficial. If my usual scripture-reading time was thrown off by a scheduling change, for example, why even bother trying to fit some study into the few minutes that were available? Or if I forgot to start my monthly fast exactly on time, why not just skip it altogether? Did I have enough energy or time for a "perfect" prayer? If not, what was the point—after all, I'd just pray again soon anyway. I commonly experienced self-talk along the lines of: "If only I was [insert here: healthier, less busy, more organized, stronger in willpower], then I could finally have time for real spiritual learning!"

But here's the thing—here's what the unnamed portrait taught me, the light that went on in my soul two years ago that I feel like I'm still leaning toward and learning from today:

Daily life is not something that gets in the way of our spiritual journey. Daily life is the journey. 

This is probably a "duh" statement to you, but it's one that has really rocked my world. The more I think about how Judaism honors the tasks of daily living that drive me crazy, the more I realize how powerful these tasks of daily living can become. We do not progress in spite of imperfection and repetition. We progress because of imperfection and repetition. The temporary nature of our decaying physical bodies, and the changing seasons of mortality, is exactly what makes our spiritual journey possible. Instead of resenting my daily chores, I can choose to see them as an invitation to live each imperfect moment with an eye toward my God. As another placard at the Skirball said: "Every moment is sacred when it is lived with justice and kindness."

This week, I'm reading in the New Testament about how Jesus taught parables using everyday objects. And I wonder if part of why He did that was to help us see value in the tasks of daily living—to reassure us that He is not found only in the one-time monumental miracles, although He performs plenty of those, but that He is also found in the daily baking of bread and sweeping of floors and counting of sheep.

Whatever your convictions are, whatever you believe in as far as a Higher Power goes, how do tasks of daily living help you connect with your spirituality? I'd love to hear your thoughts.

And you know what? Maybe it's okay that I can't remember exactly what that painting looked like. Because maybe that's the point. The important thing isn't that one moment in time, as powerful as it was. The important thing is that I treat each moment in time as powerful, even if it is imperfect or filled with seemingly mundane tasks. Because that rhythm of daily living is, after all, is what life is all about.