I've been thinking about beauty and functionality lately, particularly as it relates to my dishwasher. Yes, my dishwasher. We recently moved into a 25 year old house complete with the original appliances in the kitchen in all of their 1990 almond-colored glory. In addition to the fact that they looked old, decrepit, and dirty, they just weren't beautiful. So we opted to replace them with new ones (big surprise?). Although the appliances were old the granite countertops were new, so we chose a microwave, range, and dishwasher in stainless steel finished to a slate gray. Gorgeous. The range is a beast, complete with a 5th burner and cast iron griddle pan that weighs more than both my children combined. The microwave pops the perfect bag of popcorn. We're talking 4-5 unpopped kernels every time. (My husband and I are kind of popcorn snobs, and we also don't get out much. Unpopped kernels are big news around here.)
The dishwasher is an entirely different piece of machinery, with her own quirky little personality. For one thing, it sings a little song at the end of the wash cycle. It's a vast improvement over the foghorn-like tone of the buzzer on my dryer, but still a little....strange. But it's the interior where things get really funky. The top rack is much like what I had at my previous house, so no problems there. The utensil baskets hook onto the front exterior of both top and bottom racks, and because of their contour make it difficult to load a bunch of silverware, unless you use those weird grated basket lids. The bottom rack is another thing altogether. One side has racks at a normal height and spacing, but the other side the racks are spread so widely apart that only certain items can easily be loaded there. I'm all about getting the dishwasher as full as absolutely possible before running it, so these racks have really had me stumped.
Okay, I know. Funky dishwasher racks. First world problems. Believe me, I'm very thankful for the dishwasher. Very.
When we purchased the dishwasher we did so for two reasons. First, because we wanted a machine to clean our dishes for us, and we knew it could get the job done. Second, because it matched the other appliances, which looked good with the granite, and in turn made the entire kitchen more appealing. Useful and beautiful.
I realize now that I sacrificed some utility on the altar of beauty. If I had been hugely concerned about the ease of loading my dishes I would've opened the door of every available dishwasher and inspected the racks until I found the one that seemed most functional, regardless of the exterior color, button placements, handle options, etc. But I didn't. I chose the appliances to match the granite, and went with it.
Functionality, usefulness, and practicality are constantly fighting against attractiveness, beauty, loveliness. The more time I can invest in something, the lovelier it can be. For instance, take the posts I write. The creation of each post is a sacrifice of my time, and the reading of it is a sacrifice of yours, two facts that I take seriously. I don't have time to waste on this endeavor. If I'm going to write something, I want it to be good. So I wait until I have something to say, and then I work on how I say it for as long as it takes to make it good enough for me to feel like you might want to sacrifice some time to read it. And when you do, I truly appreciate it. When you leave comments about how you connected with what I wrote, I'm over the moon. Because that's when I know that the beauty I strove for in what I wrote met with usefulness in some small part in your life, and that makes both of our sacrifices completely worthwhile.
All of that being said, I am considering taking on a new endeavor, something crazy that I don't have much time for, which might not result in any beauty or practicality for anyone. I am thinking about joining the NaNoWriMo challenge next month.
If you've never heard of it, NaNoWriMo stands for National Novel Writing Month, which just so happens to be November. The challenge is to write a 50,000 word novel in the 30 days of the month. Doesn't sound too hard, until you start breaking it down. Let's see, 50,000 words in 30 days....that's roughly 1,667 words each day. Still doesn't sound too bad, right? And then you start doing it. And for a little while it goes beautifully, amazingly well. You are soaring along this current of words that come roaring out of your brain and gushing out through your fingers. The novel is writing itself and the exercise is pure fun. But then the doldrums set in. The story stalls, your characters get lost, and you have a permanent ache in your stomach as you try to figure out, "Where am I going with this?" The rest of the process is hard. It's work. You scrape your brain for every single one of those 1,667 words on some days, and you use little cheats like expanding all contractions just so you can meet that final word count. When it's done the relief in your bones is all you can feel, because your brain has permanently seized up in order to accomplish this feat.
For what?
No one is going to read that novel, no one is even going to know about that novel, unless you tell them, unless you offer it to them. There's no guarantee it's any good (for a novel written that quickly by an amateur, you can pretty much bet it won't be). So why go to all of that trouble? That strain? That work? When the product is mostly likely going to benefit no one, and certainly won't be beautiful.
Because some things are neither beautiful, nor functional. Some things just are. They are a self-contained effort that you do just because you want to, because even though it's painful and hard, it's also hugely rewarding. Maybe it's a selfish or foolish waste of time. That's for you to decide for yourself. For me, it's an excuse to indulge in something I love, which is writing just for the pure joy of playing with words, for shaping and being shaped by them. I guess it really is something beautiful after all.
It's time to stop playing with these words for now. My very beautiful daughter needs some practical attention from her mother.
