|Stopped (M.A. Reilly, Leonia, NJ, 2012)|
“The order that our mind imagines is like a net, or like a ladder, built to attain something. But afterward you must throw the ladder away, because you discover that, even if it was useful, it was meaningless.” ― Umberto Eco,I.
Lately, I have taken to moving furniture and vacuuming, cleaning countertops and bathrooms with strong chemicals, making my son's bed, stripping and cleaning linens, washing, washing, washing and opening wide windows--even here in December. Especially now the cold air filters in and it brings with it an odd hope.
Each day I set our unsettled house back to an orderliness few here seem to appreciate, perhaps even see. But it is not the aftermath of temporary order I seek or even their appreciation, but rather the slim accomplishment I feel that comes from doing.
Doing, not being.
Here is something I do daily, repeatedly that has a known end.
My life these days is slippery, cracked, broken, lacking an order one might name. (And I want to call forth the right words, for is not naming a truth in itself?)