The Chrome Confessional
On the Quiet Dignity and Astonishing Grace of Small Things
Even if you’re nothing but a ditch-digger, be the best ditch-digger there is. —Andy Irwin
The simple things are also the most extraordinary things, and only the wise can see them. —Paulo Coehlo
Above: Form and function for either feast, famine, festivity, or funeral.
In a piece entitled Boring is Beautiful, I wrote the following:
[N]o matter how seemingly innocuous, trite, or mundane my surroundings, if I peered closely, I could find what writer Saul Bellow called “unexpected intrusions of beauty.”
For, the world holds tremendous grandeur as long as we allow ourselves to truly see it.
There is so much material to be found in the monotonous, in the minute.
We simply have to get out of our own way.
To me, the art of getting out of your own way—of living—lies in becoming sensitive to the little things.
Things like:
A child delirious with laughter.
A night sky peppered with glinting stars.
A heaping gulp of cool, fresh air.
A quiet (or very loud, in my family’s case) night spent playing a board game.
A tight hug from a loved one.
The key is to pay attention and see the minutiae as miracles in and of themselves.
Invest your attention in the art of living.
That creed was far from mind as I sank into the overstuffed faux-leather seat of a gaudy old diner booth.
I wasn’t hunting for wonder; I just wanted (iced) coffee.
Yet that’s when the ordinary ambushed me again. My eyes fell on the most mundane of objects: a napkin holder.
It sat there dented and dinged, scuffed stainless steel tattooed by countless oily fingerprints, wedged between chipped salt shakers and a cadre of condiments; a silent, constant witness to decades of human drama.
This dutiful custodian of comfort, this chrome confessional, has watched its charges perform countless small mercies: brows wiped, spills mopped, messes cleaned, tears dried.
A humble sentinel standing guard over its disposable charges—thin squares of processed pulp we summon in moments of need and discard without ceremony. They serve us dutifully, absorbing our messes, wiping our hands, dabbing our lips, then vanish into waste bins, and finally onto trash heaps, their brief service forgotten as quickly as the meals they accompanied.
But they were there.
One after another, they did their duty well.
That holder has seen good get-togethers.
Messy meals.
Awkward first hellos.
Bitter last goodbyes.
Strong coffee.
Weak stomachs.
Good news.
Bad news.
And everything in between.
From its chrome-plated perch, it has witnessed cheerleaders, confidants, confessors, counselors, comrades, and connivers. Victors, villains, and victims—sometimes all in one person, all in one night.
Like the napkins it holds—safe, secure, and stacked just so—it remains steady amidst chaos, a ballast for the booth through many a maelstrom.
The napkins diminish and replenish in perfect rhythm, an elegant metaphor for consumption and renewal, for the circle of life itself. Each square holds the residue of connection: meals shared, smiles exchanged, laughter erupted, tears shed in both celebration and grief.
In this moment, it is no longer just stamped metal and compressed paper. It becomes a sacred vessel of human experience; modest and overlooked yet essential to the beautiful disorder of our lives.
I tug a napkin loose. The holder gives it up easily, without ceremony, ready to serve again and again no matter how mighty the mess or how tiny the teardrop.
Its willing depletion, emptying itself completely in service to strangers, might be the closest thing to unconditional love a diner can offer.
This chrome confessional models the very miracle I keep relearning—the quiet dignity and astonishing grace of small things.
Per my about page, White Noise is a work of experimentation. I view it as a sort of thinking aloud, a stress testing of my nascent ideas. Through it, I hope to sharpen my opinions against the whetstone of other people’s feedback, commentary, and input.
If you want to discuss any of the ideas or musings mentioned above or have any books, papers, or links that you think would be interesting to share on a future edition of White Noise, please reach out to me by replying to this email or following me on Twitter X.
With sincere gratitude,
Tom
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