it causes me to go out, feeling lighter from the knowledge of a cleaner house, with a white trash bag slung over my back like Santa, out, leaving my comfy black sofa, out, into the crisp, clear night with a few scattered clouds scudding overhead illuminated by the bright round disc there, the almost full moon. Tomorrow night is the full moon. I looked. The Old Farmer’s Almanac has a Moon Phase Calendar, and I checked it.
I love that I vacuum at least twice a year (religiously) because it gives me a chance to get reacquainted with my floors and with the tribes of dustbunnies who live there peacefully in the corners.
I love beginning a new book because there is nothing like it for feeling sheer terror. I felt that way when I was twelve, right before the Scream Machine crested that tall hill of metal and then plummeted down, down, down, at incredible speed. Same thing, it’s the same thing. You can lose your hat writing a book, for the rushing wind of words and thought and looking for truth and for the way you are seeing and moving in the world in a new way and are not, also, quite sure what you are seeing. By the time you get off, meet the deadline, turn it in, climb out, you are breathless, and smiling, a little sore at the shoulders for the hard curves and the inevitable jolts and sudden stops, skin still stinging somewhat from the rushing wind, but pumped, happy.
I love that my husband buys me books I’d never probably think to buy for myself and then doesn’t harangue me to read them so that when I start London a year (or more?) after he gave it to me, he’s like, “Cool! You like it?” And I do. I love every 814 of its 1124 pages that I have so far devoured.
I love the simplicity of making vegetable soup. And I love the white every grainness of rice I steam to go with it.
I love that insurance claims go wrong and that my kitchen floor is always in need of a wipedown and that sometimes (as today) my vacuum cleaner motor burns slap up and starts bellowing smoke and stinking of rubber and singed hair.
I love that things are always careening towards a mess. I mean that dishes get dirty, desks get dusty, computer screens film over, fridges get sticky, and trash piles up. It reminds me that the nunc fluens is not the antonym to the nunc stans but that the ever-flowing, ever-changing time we live in is short and so precious and that eternity is shot through each moment, if I stop to listen to the yellow of the jonquils.
I love that it all means I am alive, and singing with the yellow jonquils that some call buttercups, but, I just learned, not quite correctly, but, truly, who cares. A jonquil by any other name would still be yellow.
That’s why I love that it’s trash night. The white trash bag I carry out, bulging, lifts my eyes up to the mystery of that almost full moon, and the crisp air is the reward for my taking care of my soul by enjoying the nunc stans-ness of this weekly habit.