Since becoming a writer, my daily world view has changed. I make a very conscious effort to pause at certain moments, regardless of where I am, to appreciate those with me and observe what is around me. I try to watch closely and take in all the colors and shapes. I record notes of the tiniest details; how the lighting varies at different times of the day, what sounds are in the background, the smell of a room. It took some practice to do this, to take that mental snapshot. It’s an easy thing to accomplish when you go to a new place or meet new people because you’re meeting someone or learning something different, and it’s exciting. But I still catch myself missing these details when I’m in familiar surroundings or in the midst of a daily routine. Those are the times when I give my author self that personal kick in the rear to pay attention. I need the minutia to make the story come alive for someone who hasn’t been there. I need you to experience what I have experienced through nothing more than words. Because of this, I’ve become very focused on how I feel as I’m processing these senses. How do I turn the picture into an experience? How do turn everything that was once blocked out as the mundane into something more vivid and alive?

Tonight, it was the dishwasher. I was standing in my kitchen, packing lunches for the kids. I leaned with my belly against the counter, one foot propped up against the other leg, standing like a flamingo in my pink robe. The faint sounds of the television trickled in from the next room. I zipped open the lunch boxes, stacking them neatly alongside each other like good soldiers waiting for their daily rations. I turned and began my evening assembly line, scanning the open refrigerator for uncomplicated foodstuffs. The interior light shone brightly in my otherwise dim kitchen and I could feel the cold air tumbling down on top of my bare feet as the appliance began its incessant beeping, warning me that I had left the doors open for too long. I grabbed what I needed and placed everything on the counter near the sink. The window above the sink was open; an airplane passed overhead and a light fall breeze pushed its way into the kitchen, carrying the scent of a dwindling fire pit. I began slicing cucumbers, each crisp circle tumbling over sideways on the cutting board as the knife cut through with a satisfying click. The sweet, green aroma was too tempting; three slices found their way into my mouth instead of their personal snack bags and I chomped happily as I tossed the rest into the waiting lunch boxes. The production line continued unceremoniously with colors and nutritional selections added in turn. I considered including something sweet, but remembered how many marshmallows had been roasted over that fire pit less than an hour before, and decided against it. Alas, mean mom. Lunches now safely tucked into the fridge, I was ready to retreat to the couch, but paused. I was suddenly overcome with a sense of contentment. None of this activity had stood out to me, nothing was different than it is on any other school night. And then I realized, it was the sound of the dishwasher.

The dishwasher had been running the entire time I was preparing lunches and I ignored it. But when I finally noticed it, it’s what made me take the mental picture of the entire scene above. It captured this stage of life with my young children; school days, crisp fall evenings, juggling schedules and work and sporting events and experiencing the everyday. The dishwasher. It’s not even always on at this time of day, but sometimes it is. Sometimes it has just been emptied. Sometimes it’s halfway full and will be started after breakfast, when we’ve all left the house and no one is there to hear it working.

So, who cares? What is the big deal about the dishwasher running? I guess for me it means that we have a Monday morning with a fresh start. The kids are bathed and in bed, the lunches are made, the dishes are clean. It’s such a simple and routine thing, but a comfort all the same. Of all things, my dishwasher reminded me of why I love to write. Because I pay better attention now. Not always, but most of the time. It made me laugh at myself and my own impatience with routine. It made me feel more grateful. It made me more present and I hope, in the long run, a better writer.