I find myself longing for normality. But as I wait—impatiently—for countertops and roof and floor to be installed, I begin to wonder: what exactly is this normal I am longing for?
Philosophers love a good ambiguity, and normal is nothing if not ambiguous. In one sense, it refers to the statistical norm—the center of the bell curve, the majority experience. In the USA, most people, most of the time, have functioning kitchens. And when they do not, it is usually a short disruption, not a half-year saga. In that sense, I am out of the norm, a deviant from the statistical average. Yet deviancy, though it carries a moral sting in everyday speech, is not necessarily bad. It simply means to differ from the standard. It is a descriptive term, not a judgment.
But in my discipline—ethics—the term normative takes on a different flavor. It is not about what is, but about what ought to be. This is the classic is/ought distinction that David Hume warned us about: you cannot derive a moral “ought” solely from a factual “is.” Just because something is common or statistically normal does not mean it is good. And just because something is rare or unusual does not mean it is bad.
Which brings me back to my longing.
What is the normal I desire? Is it simply the average experience of homeowners with functional kitchens? Or is it something deeper—an ethical longing for a life that is whole, ordered, and rooted in daily ritual?
For me, a kitchen is not merely a room with appliances. It is the center of the home—the place of shared meals, steaming kettles, the rhythm of preparation and cleanup, the dance between need and care, and in the winter, the crackling log fire. Perhaps I am not longing for the statistical norm but for a kind of ethical normality—an environment that fosters care, communion, and the quiet rituals of a life well lived.
Sometimes, of course, those who live most ethically are the ones who are statistically far from normal. The great sages of the world—Confucius, Socrates, Jesus—were all, in one sense, deviants. They lived outside the norms of their societies and were punished for it. Confucius wandered, unrecognized in his own time. Socrates drank the hemlock. Jesus was crucified. None of them fit the prevailing mold. And yet their lives have shaped our deepest ethical reflections. They were not normal in the statistical sense, but they embodied what ought to be.
To be clear: I am not seeking martyrdom. I would be perfectly content with countertops and a working dishwasher. But I also know that the disruption has prompted reflection. It has sharpened my awareness of what matters. That is its hidden gift.
Normality, then, might not be something to return to blindly, but something to be reimagined. Not the average life, but the good life. Not conformity, but community. Not ease, but presence.
Still, I hope the kitchen is finished soon.
+Ab. Andy