The Joy of Cleaning

My house is filthy--no really; it's filthy!

That's because we've been under construction for two days--inside and out--having the house waterproofed. Now that the workers have packed up and left, along with a significant amount of our savings, there is dust and grit ev-er-y-wheeeeere. I'm cleaning rooms from top to bottom, extracting remnants of our basement from nooks and crannies that haven't seen a dust rag in awhile, and I've only polished off a couple of rooms all told.

It's Sunday, and I figure I'll be back at it again for the whole day.

So how come I enjoyed myself so much yesterday? How come I'm looking forward to grabbing that bucket of water and my Dyson and digging in again today? Part of it is that cleaning up this mess means my house is getting that thorough, the Pope-is-coming-to-visit cleaning that should get done at least twice a year but only seems to get done once a decade. Part of it is I'm not willing to chew food sprinkled with pulverized stone, nor do I like the feeling of living 24-7 on a beach. But while on my hands and knees wringing out the black (yes black) water from my sponge as I wiped down the hallway that had seen hundreds of buckets of busted concrete and fresh cement travel through, it occur ed to me that I was happy because of what I couldn't do instead.

I couldn't write.

In a world where we are always prioritizing, writing should be right up there for me. I've told everyone--family, friends, neighbors, business associates, the attendant at the Y, small town law enforcement officers--that I am writing a book and I want to finish it in a year. I've started my own accountability blog so others can hold my feet to the fire. I've done everything but set my computer up on the sidewalk to draw attention to my quest in hopes that such attention will spur me on to completion and shame me when I falter.

Unfortunately, none of that accountability hoo-haa has worked like I thought it would. I'm dealing with time issues and I've got a healthy dose of writer's block, true, but I'm also a somewhat self-indulgent person who doesn't want to give up a paycheck, gardening, reading, cooking, dates with Katz, dinner out with the girls, and a prime time TV addiction, so writing often gets short shrift.

What the accountability hoo-haa has done is given me a load of guilt to carry around. It has taken all those things I love to do from being a natural, normal part of my day and turned them into conscious choices I must make. When I choose to do something I love to do, I am often left with that you-are-not-a-very-good-person taste in my mouth because I don't choose to write. But, cleaning my house--well, it's not a choice right now, it's a must do or Katz will move out and the health department will slap a Dirty Dining sticker on my front door.

I just can't write today. I just can't.

What a relief.

The Kindness of Strangers

I'm one of those huggy sort of people. I probably drive some folks a little crazy, but that's the way it is. I'm a bonder. I connect with folks quickly over big things, little things--it doesn't much matter. For people who don't like to be touched or hugged, I should probably come with a warning. Got something in common with me? Better not mention it or you might get hugged. Find yourself too close to me in an emotional situation, say in Central Park mulling over John Lennon's absence from this earth at Strawberry Fields and, whoa baby, better not come too close. Do something nice for me? Watch out. And don't even think about being sad or vulnerable, 'cause I'll be on you like white on rice.

So it shouldn't surprise anyone that yesterday found me leaning through a car window in the middle of the Pick 'N Save parking lot hugging a woman who, two minutes earlier, had been a complete stranger.

I was returning to my car after delivering my cart to the store when I spotted a woman jockeying her car into a parking space next to mine. As I hopped into the driver's seat, she caught my eye. She rolled down her window and motioned to me, and I remember thinking (not so nicely), "What now?" I'd just finished shopping for the week and, as Katz will tell you, I'm a chop-chop sort of person--shop, get home (driving slightly over the speed limit), put those groceries away, and move on to the other dozen things on my to-do list for the day. Did I want to take time to talk to some unknown, middle-aged black woman in a parking lot? No, but of course, just like anybody else would, I did.

"You're missing the cap to your tire valve."
"Really?"
"Your air could leak out and you could have a flat tire."
"I had no idea. Thank you for saying something."
"Do you want one?"
"What?"
"Do you want a cap?"
"You have a spare cap? Really?"
"My tire had the same problem last week, so I bought a pack."

In the end, I got a cap for my tire, she got hugged by a crazy lady from the suburbs, and we both, I think, went on to have a better day.

And They Danced . . .

It was a great wedding on many levels--a very personal service with a sense of heart, humor and an impromptu nod to Broadway; a reception hall dripping with history, with beauty to spare; old friends to reconnect with; music, music, music. There was a lot to enjoy, but the dancing, ahh, the dancing was what made the evening.

The bride and groom both love to dance, and they’re darn good. It was a blast to watch the groom dance. Ian's got talent and style, and he danced with attitude. Still, as I reflect on that evening in September, it’s the memory of the bride that makes me smile.

Maggie danced in heels a mile high, and she danced in bare feet. She shimmied, she moved her hips, she danced high, she danced low. She hit the dance floor with her new husband, her dad, her friends, the African Dance Troupe she performs with—-she even sought out the DJ and danced with him. She oozed happiness and the guests could hardly take their eyes off of her.

As I watched her, what touched my heart was her freedom and her joy; she was unabashed and danced with abandon. She was just plain fun to watch.

I love the idea of “abandon,” that ability to yield without restraint and moderation. The way I see it, in life these days there’s an awful lot holding us down, weighing on us. People are angrier and more uptight than ever before, there’s no patience and too little faith. I'm pretty sure a sense of abandon would seriously interfere with all the shouting and despair. It would definitely cut in to all the time people spend texting instead of connecting, and it would probably put a damper on certain people’s concern with appearances.

So, let’s all take up where Maggie left off. Let’s all dance more, laugh harder, seek out the joy in a fall Wisconsin day, carve a crazy pumpkin, jump in a pile of leaves, hug a friend, sing out loud, share a joke, and in general just experience life with abandon. What could be bad about that?