Domestic Therapy

I couldn't resist those siren calls from my son's bedroom today. They begged for a cleaner room. They pleaded for the destruction of the dust bunnies now looking like they have been on a steady diet of steroids. Mildew and calcium build up don't deter a young man's primping. Sleeping in sheets that have not been washed this year doesn't affect your sleep. It's just me that is bothered by it all. I try to keep the door closed and pretend that on the other side order and cleanliness reign.

I'm four hours into this job. I've recyled four year Social Studies notes. I have bundled all the basketball gear and all the hoodies that are no longer worn but too good to throw out. I'm ready to tackle the toilet, shower and sink. I have industrial rubber gloves and a resolve to "get 'er done". I know. I should keep resisting. But honestly there is something really really therapeutic about cleaning or ordering something physically. It's as if the chaos that often rules in my head can also be sorted, recycled or bundled up. It's satisfying to look at it when it's finished and proclaim that for that one second I can see evidence of my labours. And this also makes me more determined than ever to channel my energies and work at something more meaningful and more lasting than a dust free, clean sheeted bedroom.