The romantic and the ordinary.

Latin.

What comes to mind upon reading that word? Think about it. Let it fill your brain.

Now hold that thought. Store it. But keep it close, as to facilitate recall momentarily.

Washing dishes.

What enters your mind after the leading of that phrase? Dwell on that a moment.

It is now time to employ your recall. Remember what you thought when reading "latin." Compare it to what you thought after reading "washing dishes."

Your thoughts aren't jiving, are they? They're nothing alike, right?

Neither are mine.

I did this same mental exercise earlier as I was singing in Latin and thinking about how wonderful it feels to sing in Latin, then being drawn back to the fact that I was washing dishes while doing so. Something about that seemed odd to my brain.

Yet completely natural.

It's really easy for me to get preoccupied with what's happening in front of my face, what physical activity my body is currently engaged in, what the people around me need me to do. I imagine that's probably true for you, too.

That's why I sing in Latin. That's why I read stories. That's why I listen to music, why I talk to people, why I stalk their Facebook pages and Twitter feeds. They all remind me that there's more out there than myself and the mire in which I tend to live. People and cultures have lived before me. People and cultures will live after me. People and cultures I don't know are living now. As important as it is to attend the crusty dishes residing in the sink, it's equally as important to be aware of the wideness of existence.

And so I sing Latin while I wash.

And speak German while I fold laundry.

Listen to centuries-old compositions on 21st-Century gadgets.

And write letters to a girl a world away in South Africa, whose life is more like mine than I expected.