That Good Tired

Feb 15 2020

Was it the smell of Windex

that brought me to my senses?

Caustic and chemical,

a clear sapphire blue

I imagine would be beautiful

in a high prairie sky

in a fresh-rinsed spring.

The moment I found myself

fiercely polishing the glass,

buffing hand-prints and grease

until my reflection looked back

in all its grimly focused clarity,

the fixed mouth

and determined eyes

of the man who avidly cleans.

Who finds it therapeutic

to wrest order from chaos

feel in control.

Cleanliness,

at least until the dust settles

and life resumes.

Until the monkey brain

starts chattering again,

hanging from that thin branch, high overhead

and chasing its long capricious tail.

Comforted

by the vacuum's white noise.

Calmed

by the wide-open floors

cleared of clutter and junk.

Toilet scrubbed,

a load of laundry sudsing up,

the dryer's soothing rumble.

Another day, I know

and it will be mostly undone.

But this, too

is reassuring in its way;

that life moves

in familiar circles,

doing, undoing

then doing again.

A thing you can see and touch

conclusively measure.

A job well done

the virtue of work.

That ammonia smell

leaving you slightly breathless,

that good tired

you've honestly earned.

I used to be much more of a clean freak, but fortunately age has mellowed me. Nevertheless, cleaning has its virtues, and not just the one of bringing you closer to godliness! It has a restorative power. Especially when things feel out of control, or you feel ineffective or lacking in agency.

And while much of what we do is ephemeral, or virtual, or hard to quantify, a clean and neat environment is one of the few things that produce a result you can see and touch and measure. And that gives immediate pleasure, as well.

So not a bad form of therapy, after all. Not to mention freely available any time, and at zero cost!