Today I power-cleaned my house- swept, washed floors, did laundry, dusted, gave the dog a bath, and cleaned the kitchen and bathroom. I got into the ‘evil’ spots; those little nooks and crannies that any homeowner knows about, but hidden to the casual visitor.
I did it because I finally had the time to get the work done, and for the peace of mind that, for a little while, I could rest confident in the fact that my house is clean.
Somehow, I was raised to think that dust was a thing to fight. A dusty house was a dirty house. It was a negative status symbol, a sign that a woman was not in control of her home or her life.
I accepted that, and fought the enemy diligently.
Until I moved to Montana.
Here I’ve learned the silly simple truth that dust is part of life. It’s in the roads, in the fields, in the air on my dog, and yes, it’s in my house.
I promise you now, that if you visit my home, you will find dust. I’ll Swiffer it when it makes the furniture turn grey instead of brown, but there will always be some around.
Along with the aspens, the mountains, and the blue, blue skies, dust has kinda become a friend. It’s constant, it’s dependable, and it’s always there….
