journal of a writing man

I made good progress with the cleaning yesterday, much to Dolly’s disgust.  She regards the use of the vacuum cleaners as a personal affront to her right to peace and quiet.

I told her that I couldn’t be doing with her scowling and moaning and complaining;  the job has to be done, like it or not.  Secretly, though, I’m on her side. I’m not scowling, nor moaning, nor complaining, but I do feel some resentment that the papers and books on my desk have been disturbed, dusted, and put back in neat stacks in almost but not quite the same place and the same order.  How can you tell if a book should still be in the stack if there’s no dust on it to say how long it has been there?

How long is too long?

Today I must vacuum and then wash the hard floors.  Thankfully I have little or no affection for dust on the kitchen floor so, when it’s clean and showing some inclination towards the gleam of good housekeeping I shan’t feel resentment when I sit back and contemplate the results.  Just weary.

There’s nothing quite so wearisome as work done without enjoyment or enthusiasm.  I used to be able to smile through it like a Zen monk, consoled by the knowledge that application to daily tasks is in itself a virtuous form of Zen meditation.

I’m not sure I still think that way but it could be for all I care.  That’s doubtless why ancient Zen masters gather a crowd of young aspirants about them, to sweep the floors.

Hey ho.  Some time next week I shall give the dusters a last shake and shove them in the washer so they may be laundered, folded and stacked neatly against Graham’s return.  He’s not a young aspirant, but he does still have all the energy and application needed for cleaning and polishing.  My last task before he arrives will be to distribute a few bowls of fresh pot-pourri around the house, and give the carpets and curtains a light misting of Febreze. Then I shall sit back, positively refreshed, and wait on the verdict.

It’ll be fine.  Graham will say kind, reassuring and appreciative things and then, a few days later, hit the house like a domestic dervish, whirling and whizzing, and all will be restored.

Dolly will scowl and moan and complain about that, too, but as I tell her, into each life a little rain must fall.

Speaking of which I do believe from the look of the sky that it’s just about to rain.  That’ll be nice.

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in the midst of cleaning
an old grey poet leans on his brush
silence falls

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