the rhythms of my childhood linger in my semi-annual rituals of domestic overhauling. twice a year, sometime in late february or early march, and then again in september/october when the children go back to school, i engage in a grand round of sorting, storing, and sprucing. up and down to the attic, into the deepest corners of the closets, and off to the stores, i go, lists in hand, intent focused, will engaged. this is the time of year i refinish furniture, paint, sew, and scrub.
Beloved watches, lifts, and carries. why do you do this, he asked me the first few times he came home to find rooms radically or subtly transformed.
part of it is the dictate of my childhood, a pattern laid down so long ago, i have but to close my eyes over a box of mothballs and i am tiny, tiny, watching rolls of rugs hauled up and down attic steps.
but part of it is the sheer pleasure of creation, the satisfaction one can sense in sunshine after rain, a winter's first fresh snow, or the bare pristine soil of a garden in spring.
and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.