Why is it that, in the middle of a very full schedule, with dawn to dusk tasks (fun ones, for sure, but still), that you suddenly want to stop everything and deep clean the kitchen? Deadlines and phone calls and projects slide right out of front view and all you can see is a sink full of soapsuds and a vacuum with the hose attached.
It's beyond reason, really, but what could I do but concede?
It helped, of course, that this side-line of my workday happened in my little kitchen, which consists of just four cabinets and a bank of drawers (the open shelves get cleaned often enough during our everyday that they didn't even count), any bigger and I may have had to reconsider.
Every shelf, every drawer was vacuumed, washed, and straightened. Two things were purged. A few things were sent to the camping tote (and, yes, it was good to see that, after four years in the little house, I pretty much had the same things in my kitchen that I'd started with). Light music, a light atmosphere, and quiet company (Nellie slept right through) allowed my thoughts to bump gently about, not needing to become much of anything.
During a months-long stretch of intense creativity, this was a welcome respite, indeed. Swish the sponge in the soapsuds, wipe the cabinet shelf. Place the mugs in a row. Nest the skillets. From crust and crumb to clean and polished, without much thought at all. It was the restorative power of a simple task, served straight up. And given that its beginning was not far from its end, gratification, that beautiful thing, was soon within reach.
I want to remember this. Remember that a re-set for the larger work may just be found while on my knees with my sleeves rolled up.