I woke this morning wanting to wipe the surfaces clean, to return my apartment to a gentler order free of careening piles and cluttered countertops. I wanted to quiet the unease that a mess left for too many days in a row can provoke in me. So I dusted the furniture, and vacuumed, and put away the last of the laundry, and went through all of the mail I'd been ignoring.
I did all of these tasks in my underwear, because the call to clean had felt so immediate and clear. I called the carpet cleaners, who are coming on Monday, and I can already imagine the layer of history they will take with them, the backlog of unkemptness that has been underfoot.
And I'm not sure why, but as I was pushing the rag across the bureau and squeezing the vacuum underneath the bottom rung of the barstools and folding up my socks, I thought to myself, "I wonder who I will love next." It was an airy, ethereal sort of thought, because I couldn't picture who this person was, but nevertheless it buoyed me, like a stretch of warm wind or the glow from a distant lighthouse.
The days have been quietly busy. A few writing jobs. Exercise classes. Preparations for teaching a 5-week online workshop. I feel like I've been priming the canvas, getting my body and mind in shape for what's next. So maybe I shouldn't be surprised that I wanted to get my house in order too.
Every day, another step forward, heart opening to take everything in. I realize that something in me must be getting ready, in the smallest, most incremental ways, to fly.