The Divine in the Ordinary
O zwyczajnym, które bywa święte — about the ordinary that turns sacred.
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Simplicity is Divine In the hush of a small room, a cup, a cat, and you. Light folds itself across the wood, and silence hums like prayer. Nothing grand — only warmth, only breath, only being. Here, in this stillness, the divine arrives softly, unannounced, as the scent of bread or the slow blink of a cat. — Mila Morris |
I thought about my next post last night. I thought so slowly, slowly, even slower… until sleep folded over me like a heavy curtain, and three hours disappeared without leaving a single trace of the idea I had been holding. Not even a shadow remained. But as my late Mum used to say, with that gentle shrug of hers: “It happens even to the best ones.” Minds wander, and sometimes they wander straight into sleep, taking our thoughts with them.
I do remember one thing, though. Out of nowhere, ksiądz Pawlukiewicz appeared in my mind — the beloved Polish priest, also gone now, whose voice carried both humour and holiness. He once preached about Jesus and His holy Mother Mary, insisting that people should see them as normal, because our humanity is divine.
He asked the congregation in St. Anna’s Church in Warsaw:
“Czy naprawdę myślicie, że Jezus, zaraz jak tylko wstał, mówił do swojej matki: Święta Maryjo, Matko Boga, Wieżo z Kości Słoniowej, usmaż mi trzy jajka na śniadanie, proszę?” “Do you really think that Jesus, the moment He got up, spoke to His mother saying: Holy Mary, Mother of God, Ivory Tower, fry me three eggs for breakfast, please?”
And she replied:
“Tak, Synu Boży, Świata Odkupicielu, już robię.” “Yes, Son of God, Redeemer of the World, I’m already making them.”
Of course not. They were also human. Extraordinary, yes — but human. They spoke to each other the way we speak. They lived the way we live. They felt the way we feel. And yet their ordinary life was touched with something sacred.
And our ordinary lives are touched with sacrum too. The difference is simply that we rarely notice it. We rush past the divine as if it were a misplaced receipt or a familiar street corner. It hides in the small things that happen every hour, every minute — in the things we have and forget to treasure.
Just like Marcus Aurelius. Not the marble statue of Stoic perfection, not the stern emperor carved into textbooks. He was a normal man placed in an utterly abnormal position: emperor of Rome.
He didn’t grow up expecting to rule the world. He was adopted into power — a political manoeuvre, not a divine prophecy. As a young man, he preferred philosophy to politics. He studied with teachers who irritated him, inspired him, and occasionally bored him senseless. He wrote notes to himself late at night, often while exhausted, often while ill, often while surrounded by soldiers waiting for orders.
During his reign, Rome faced almost everything at once: a plague that killed millions, endless wars along the Danube, economic strain, political pressure, and personal heartbreak — he buried several of his children. And still, he tried to remain gentle. He tried to remain fair. He tried to remain sane.
Meditations wasn’t written in marble halls. It was scribbled in military camps, in cold tents, with smoke in the air and mud underfoot. He wasn’t a statue. He was a man who got tired, who doubted, who worried, who tried.
And perhaps that’s the point ksiądz Pawlukiewicz was making: the divine hides in the ordinary. The sacred hides in the human. Greatness hides in people who are simply doing their best in difficult circumstances.
Marcus Aurelius didn’t need to be perfect to be meaningful. Jesus and Mary didn’t need to be distant to be holy. And we don’t need to be extraordinary to live lives that matter.
So today, my dear Reader…
Instead of chasing grand theories or marble‑polished legends, I simply want to share a few historical facts — small, human details that show Marcus Aurelius and ancient Rome were not mythic, not distant, not carved out of heroic stone. They were ordinary in their own extraordinary way. Just like us. Just like the divine hidden in everyday life.
A Few Delightfully Strange Facts About Marcus Aurelius and Ancient Rome
Marcus Aurelius disliked gladiator fights. He found them barbaric and preferred philosophy. Imagine being emperor of Rome and thinking, “Honestly, I’d rather read.”
He once discouraged public kissing. During the Antonine Plague, he advised people to avoid it. A very early form of social distancing — but with more sandals.
Roman soldiers were paid in salt. That’s where the word salary comes from. People were literally “worth their salt”.
Romans used urine as a cleaning agent. Public toilets collected it, laundries used it to whiten clothes, and the emperor taxed it. Marcus Aurelius: philosopher, emperor, and accidental overseer of the world’s strangest detergent industry.
Marcus Aurelius owned a pet lion. Not for intimidation — he simply liked animals. Imagine trying to write Stoic reflections while a lion strolls past your desk.
Romans believed cabbage cured everything. Headache? Cabbage. Hangover? Cabbage. Existential dread? Almost certainly cabbage.
Marcus wrote parts of Meditations wrapped in a cloak by the Danube, freezing, probably thinking, “I did not sign up for this.”
And so, my dear Reader…
Stay ordinary. Enjoy simplicity. And find your divine particles quietly shining inside it. I am looking for mine.
Post Scriptum
The true beauty of this world is free — did you notice it? And it’s for everyone.
I just came back from outside. I saw the Perseids, bright and brief and falling like small blessings. And my daughter stood next to me, her face lifted to the sky, and she was beautiful.
In that moment, I felt it again: I am a proud, happy mama. And the world, in its quiet way, is still full of wonder.
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Protect your inner world with clarity, kindness, and quiet strength.
Marcus Aurelius’ reminder that true strength is silent, steady, and born in difficult moments.
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