Slow and Steady

I make the weekly plans to clean the house and organize some closets. Normally, I clean in a frenzy. But I feel tired today. So I consider:

There’s no rush. Why rush? A little here, a little there. One room here, one room there. 

I used to clean frantically and race car driver fast because it set me free to do what I really wanted to do, whatever that was. 

I lived many parts of my life like this: frantic and fast to make time. For what, I still am not always sure. 

But today? I enjoy the slow and steady pace of the day’s work. I pray in child-scented rooms, over rumpled beds, and as I carefully fold pool towels. I dust objects of childhood like clay figurines and favorite books. 

I ponder. I use lavender oil here and there. I listen to birds. I view the vegetable garden. 

I make toast and spread thick peanut butter on it because this slowness takes new energy. I chew. I think about peanut butter sandwiches. I’ve always loved them, but I needed milk to go with them always. 

I write a few lines. I look at the Weeping Cherry. 

I’ve never been slow at work, so I’ve missed the particular pleasure of what I’m doing. Instead of getting through it, I stay in it slowly, and I even marvel over this ordinary housekeeping. 

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