Keeping House

When I awoke this morning, sun gently filtering through sheer white curtains and tickling my face with the light buoyancy of a feather, I sat up slowly and let my gaze settle in fragments upon the room while my eyes adjusted. Everything was in partial disarray, the week's hectic schedule having impaired my usual together-ness and tidyness. Clothes strewn across the papasan and at the foot of the bed and spilling out of the dirty clothes hamper. Tiny static-clinged millet hulls scattered everywhere on our rug as the aftermath of breaking-in my husband's new pillow, a sort of wedding gift from me (see previous article). Jeezischrist, what a mess, I thought. Is 7:22 am on a Sunday too early to start cleaning? And then, like a high-five to the bridge of my nose, it hit me: I'm a bonafide "grown-up," now. No more playing house in oversize dress shirts and aprons. This is for realsies. And I'm actually, not lying, excited about it.

The exact time at which the aging occurred is rather unclear. Whether sometime around last May, when I graduated with a Bachelor's degree in English and a half-finished novella in my portfolio, or sometime thereafter when, at the very under-ripe age of 23, I burnt out and stopped writing; or sometime in May of 2008, when I left a dead-end Shipping/Receiving position at the highly-coveted Powell's Books because it wasn't near enough to my original aspirations as a writer and left me jaded without a sense of purpose or drive; or when immediately post resignation, on the whim of some uterine itch of sorts, I jumped head-on into surrogate parent-dom as Assistant Teacher in the infant room at a fledgling childcare center, despite the fact that I had zero experience or training outside of childhood cuddles with my babydolls; or perhaps it happened all of a sudden when I got married last month to the love of my life and began burrowing a warm and nurturing domestic niche for myself and my husband. Hard to say. But with sleep-crusties still clinging to my eye lids, in my freshest early-morning ponderance, I suspected the full force of it really came about only yesterday. I bought my first vacuum cleaner. That's what did it. A Sears Kenmore Magic Blue canister vac.

After approximately 15 hours of admittedly anal-retentive research of Consumer Reports and Amazon.com reviews, and checking out "the merch" at local departments in the area, I settled upon this mid- to lower-end model with an additional three year full warranty by the in-town service center. And it's like a dream.

All morning (intermittently between blog-breaks, breakfast, and refills of Emergen-C) I've been switching between one attachment and the next, sucking up every mite from cracks and crevices, carpets, hardwood, upholstery, molding. And aside from the immediate gratification of seeing my home become gradually dust- and dirt-free, I feel oddly contented by this act. As the grime that has deflected previous vain efforts of broom and pail is whizzed away to bagged oblivion in my vacuum, and I slowly un-settle the sediment of our day-to-day existence, I feel my own self settling in its place.

It kindof reminds me of a book I'm currently reading, a memoir by Haruki Murakami, about the role that running has played in his life. Singularly meditative by repetitive motion to a point of hypnotic mind-placidity, Murakami describes the act of daily running as an excercise of the psyche as well as the physical body. In addition, the hard training and marathons run by Murakami throughout his adult life act as benchmarks, in a way, of the growth and transformation experienced as he ages and "settles" into the various stages of his life journey. For those not familiar with Murakami's work and life, at the age of 59, he's pretty much done it all, trying his hand and succeeding as business owner of a bar, author of countless stories and novels (in both Japanese and English), translater, and competitive runner, among other pursuits. I would say he's lived a very full life.

Maybe it's a stretch, but like running to Murakami, for me vacuuming this morning with my first major domestic purchase as a newlywed took on a highly meditative aspect and brought a profound sense of identity or place (for lack of better words) to this era of my life. Not that cleaning house is all of a sudden going to be a role I dutifully adopt as wife - chores and cleaning tasks are for the most part shared in our household. I'm not a Harriet to my Ozzie. But what I mean is this: like the space I occupy with my husband must be worked at regularly (by all parties) to be kept clean and healthy and functioning for the both of us in a comfortable manner, my adult life, too, including all of its parts (job or career, relationships, responsibilities, mental health, physical health, intellect, etc.), must be kept up, clutter-free, and regularly maintenanced more and more as I mature. And though it can sometimes seem tedious or daunting, it's something that I enjoy, because it brings about so many benefits. Life becomes smoother and more enjoyable when I keep it generally organized and free of ugly, grimy things (metaphorically speaking, now). By constantly re-assessing the current state of my life on a habitual basis, getting rid of any unwanted "dust," and coveting what is fresh and beautiful and pure, I find that I'm truly content and can fully accept, even enjoy the process of growing older.

And so I finish typing, and move to the next room, picking up my telescopic vacuum wand to continue the process. The vacuuming will never truly be complete, because each day a new layer of dust will come wafting in my front door or be dragged by muddy sneakers onto the floor, and it will build and build until I take out the vacuum again next week. But I won't worry about next week. All I can focus on is today. How tidy can my life be made, today? Well, with the help of a good vacuum, it can be pretty comfortable. And I'm telling you, it feels really, really good to live my life right now.