I started cleaning yesterday. I hadn’t in about three weeks. Much as I love the final product, I hate the process with a passion. When I can get away with it such as when Hubby’s at his mom’s, I let it go as long as possible. I’m writing or making dog jewelry, thank you very much. Both shine brighter on my screen.

However, even I have my limits. When the carpet starts to turn white from accumulating dog fur, when sheets crawl down the stairs under their own power to the laundry room, it’s time. It becomes a question of which I hate more: the white fluff balls wandering about or the awkward waltz with the vacuum cleaner. The vacuum cleaner wins, or at least collaborates.

It’s not a take-the-house-apart cleaning, more like the cumulative weekly tidying that’s morphed into three weeks’ worth of dusting, de-cluttering, and vacuuming as well as a few strategic wipe-downs and swishes in the bathroom. The house feels better afterwards, and frankly, so do I. I finish off the tidying with a cedar-sage spray to dissipate any remaining bad energetic vibes or do a sage smudge with the range hood going. Otherwise, the smoke alarms make PSAs to the neighbors about my activities.

When I’m done, I have a cup of tea. I’ve accomplished something, maybe not something to impact the world’s woes, but in immediate circles, it’s made a small contribution to peace and order. A lot to be said about that.

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