Claire Amaouche

We don’t speak enough of the ordinary. 

Of ordinary days, of ordinary people.

Yet there is beauty in the ordinary. 

There is more beauty in the ordinary,

than in the extraordinary.
More beauty in the nameless lives of history than in its heroes.

In those who live simply and quietly. 

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The fabric of our societies is made of the ordinary. 

The bonds that connect us are formed

between ordinary people.

You and I, in fact.

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I wish we could linger a little on the everyday.

A spring spent in the garden, 
back bent over rows of lettuce.

Those long days of idleness and quiet.
And, after the storm has passed, 

skin that smells of the forest.

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