I feel things deeply, but I wouldn't call myself an emotional person. I don't remember the last time I cried, and most of the time, I'm neither incredibly happy nor incredibly sad. I'm simply content. When someone asks me how my day has been, however, I usually answer, "Good." I've learned from experience that if I tell the truth and say, "Fine" or "OK" or "Pretty good," my friend assumes that my day hasn't gone well and expresses concern for me. And so I say, "Good," although that's not how I would actually describe my days.

Most of my days are mediocre. I live in patterns and sequences, from class to work to eating to exercise to meetings to homework to sleep. The same rituals repeat themselves week after week, and I complete them, sometimes out of duty, sometimes from joy, sometimes against my will, but most often out of the certain promise that what I do today is forming who I want to be tomorrow.

My life is a garden, a field, and my days are full of the plain, purposeful work of plowing and tilling. I take each hour as it comes and plod on. There is nothing glamorous or glorious or heart-wrenching about such an existence, and I think that's why it's hard to explain to people how I feel about my life. It's easier when someone tells us that his day was miserable or wonderful — if miserable, we can empathize and express sorrow; if wonderful, we can rejoice at his blessings.

But mediocre days are not great conversation starters. We're unsure of how to respond when a friend's day is just another day. Should we attempt to make it more exciting for him? Congratulate him that he's completed work and been faithful with the hours he's been given? Does he need encouragement? Or is he actually perfectly fine?

To all you vibrant, emotive people, don't worry when I say my day has been OK. I'm glad my days are mediocre; I enjoy my simple thoughts and daily challenges, the small breaths of a blue sky and a hug from a friend. Each hour I live is a snarl of goodness and hardship. Some days, one thread stands out more than the other, but the colors always blur together.

I know that not everyone views life this way, and I'm not saying that it's better to have less ups and downs on your horizon. I believe that feeling extreme joy and extreme pain is just as much of a true and intentional way to live. But if you're like me and find yourself struggling to explain your life in language that allows others to relate to you, don't be ashamed that you rarely dance for joy or cry. It's OK to live in the middle, not drowning or flying but floating, sailing on a journey that is continually unfolding.