Sweeping the Floor

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Most mornings, I kiss my children goodbye, watch them climb onto the bus, close the door, and pick up the broom.  In those first moments of hush that follow the cavalcade, I am sweeping. I brush up the grit and chaos of the morning.

I don’t do this out of a cleaning neurosis.  It’s not an effort to keep up appearances, should a neighbor stop by unannounced.  There are plenty of pockets of mess throughout the house that dispel any visage of perfection.

No, this sweeping up that I do is purely selfish in nature.  It is a gift I offer myself.  I walk across my foyer repeatedly and barefoot all day long.  Each passage across it, clean and grime free makes me feel so taken care of.  Because, you see, I’m the only person who gets to enjoy this grit-free floor.  As soon as anyone arrives back home, they bring with them the sand and sludge.  This sweeping I do is just for me.

It’s the same reason I stash the TV away from the main living area, when I can.  It’s the same reason I open the blinds at the first indication that there is even one lumen of light out there that I could be letting inside.  It’s the same reason I put the mashed potatoes in my great grandmother’s bowl.

These aren’t decorating choices at their core.  They are self care.  They are ways that I show up for myself in my home.

And that is why, every bed in my house is made up with a light blanket folded across the foot of it.  To the untrained eye, that may look like a form of decorating, but I promise, that has nothing to do with it.  It’s a constant invitation, if I need to, to take a nap.  

If you come to visit, there’ll be one at the end of your bed, too.