The Forgotten Power of the Mundane
By: Morgan Sullivan
There are three things I never learned in middle school which has subsequently positioned me to meet failure later in life: first, how to do a cartwheel. (Yes, I’m serious. Have you not seen the skill on Netflix’s Cheer?) Second and third, how to do those extravagant braids you’ve only really ever seen executed in The Hunger Games or on Pinterest boards, and how to properly paint my nails.
The last time I had even the desire to paint my nails was during that terrible 2011 crackle nail polish trend. Back then, I remember examining a bottle in a local Rite Aid, to which my mother caught my attention and said,
“That’s a big waste of money. You’re better off just letting regular polish chip away.”
I guess I assumed her word to be concrete. You see, it was when I was fixing my computer screen to do one of my Zoom classes when I caught a glimpse of my nails in the camera. The job was embarrassingly done: chipped, broken, and half-painted, with just a glimpse of Essie’s Turquoise and Caicos shining through.
But, it wasn’t just my lack of patience that was to blame — it was my inability to throw myself into projects that made me feel authentic and aligned, primarily meditative ones before isolation came about.
Rather than centering myself, I was exerting energy to try to soothe anxiety, only to find myself exhausted and overworked. I was attending boxing classes in Center City, taking leisurely jogs, (sprints might be the more appropriate word here), down Kelly Dr., and rearranging an already busy schedule to arrange dinner meetups with friends. I’m not sure which was more rejected, my undressed nails or my own solitude.
Then suddenly, solitude became my only course of action. As an attempt to feel more in control, with the decision to refocus my attention internally rather than externally, I took a retreat from the chaos.
When frustration hits as those all-encompassing ways to cope fall short, I turn on two things: Carole King’s “Tapestry” and the motivation to grasp my emotions. Ironically, to do so, I’m sitting alone on the cold hardwood of my childhood bedroom, doing the thing I swore to hate the most.
I prop up a bottle on an old magazine to ensure no spills across my floor with a mission to not only recolor my fingertips, but to sit with nothing but my own thoughts and an open bottle of polish for a while. I indulge in the presence of them, inviting them in, exploring where they go without trying to quiet the noise.
It feels just like classic meditation: I’m sitting upright, exhaling with each stroke, as I apply a thin coat to my fingertips. Not going too close to the cuticle line. I try my best to keep a strong hand while maneuvering both balance and concentration. With sharp precision and attention to detail, I stroke down the middle, then to one side and to the other, finally blending the color like. I’m a kid shading the page of a coloring book.
I cap the edge by taking the brush and running across the edge of the nail, all while my mind is idle. It’s a strange paradox to feel alert but also so relaxed. It is for this reason I have continued this ritual each week, allowing some time for positive self-reflection, finally beginning to beat those intrusive anxieties.
Painting my nails has become less about outwardly cosmetics and more about the attention brought to my inner well-being. (Who would be seeing my nails in a pandemic anyway, right?) In a time of heightened uncertainty, this ritual has helped me feel more structured.
With a finished fresh coat, I reflect my previous obsessions, realizing how powerless and small they now seem. This sentiment proves itself to be habit-forming — and worth practicing even when the paint chips away once more.
