Thoreau, housework , and other rituals

I love to mop floors. I like it so much, I save it for special occasions. Like... well, Spring. Spring is a good time. I'm talking about when you move everything, even to the corners and underneath things and you REALLY mop -- not just that middle-of the floor thing I (and MANY other people) do.

I have a lot of things that don't go anywhere -- things like baskets of yarn, stone jars full of roots and bark and buckets of stones and all manner of things that I use in crafts and Crafts. I've got a sweet little painted glass thing full of WV glass bits. And there's sea shells and candle holders and ... ok, well -- what some might refer to as clutter.

But remember, I just de-cluttered -- this isn't clutter, it has a purpose. It's just that when I really mop, it all needs moved somewhere. Generally, I pile it all up on something -- like one of the tables. And once I've mopped, I dust everything and put it all back -- under things or in the corner, where I can find it.

I mop with a bit of amonia and some lemongrass oil. This works well for me. And I get thourough with the mopping. That's what I spent most of the day on. Mopping and dusting.

I was thinking about Thoreau.

Once, he brought a curious-looking piece of granite into his house. He had it sitting on a table inside his window and, one day as he was tidying up the place, he realized he actually spent valuable time dusting that rock. So he picked it up and heaved it out of the window.

And then he wrote about the uselessness of "things".

I beg to differ with him.

Because of that piece of rock, I thought of this man today. A man who died a hundred and 48 years ago. And I thought of him because here we were engaged in the same common ritual -- dusting. And I remember reading what he wrote -- what he thought. A thought, something made of nothing tangible, still alive and well all these years later.

And I thought of other things he wrote. How that fellow, Flint, wouldn't let him camp on his land and Thoreau called him skinflint. And how another fellow allowed he could camp on his land. It was sort of like what happened with Woodstock -- it was supposed to happen in Wallkill but was banned there.

I thought of things written about Thoreau -- that when he was young, he accidentally set fire to some woods he was camping in. And that some women felt sorry for him, once, and sewed him six white shirts so he'd look decent when he came into town. He took the shirts, took them home and dyed them with bark and leaves -- so they were mottled in browns and greens -- he wanted to blend in to the woodland. Not so he could sneak up on unsuspecting wildlife and shoot them as modern day camouflage wearing people do, but so he could stand quietly and watch animals being themselves. He was an observer. One contemporary of Thoreau said that he'd passed by a pond one morning and seen Thoreau standing looking into the water. He said after he'd put in a day's work and was returning home, there the man stood, right in the same spot, still staring into the pond.

I wouldn't have been thinking about Thoreau today if he hadn't written about that piece of granite. What he wrote then about the rock is still alive today. So, was the rock worthless? I can just see this tall, thin fellow in a woodsy tie-dyed shirt, tossing a piece of granite out a window and looking freer because not only did he not own that piece of rock, but he also didn't have to dust it.

All this dusting is really just a ritual. I get to admire my treasures. Sometimes I think of setting them all free, too. Throw the rocks into a stream, burn the bits of bark and roots, and do i really need that many candleholders?

Today, I got to thinking of how many of these things I've thought of getting rid of -- some things I've considered more than once. But there they are, and I'm glad to see them -- old canisters, some granite wear, and that Lipton box.

That Lipton box became invisible. It moved with us several times and I dust it off and put it back each time I mop. I'd forgotten what it held. I've been looking through old pictures lately, but I'd forgotten about these. This was just "that Lipton tea box". It ceased to be a container and became an object in itself. A little metal box that had become invisible.

Tonight, I get to make a pint of tea and go through these pictures and remember. This is a good ritual. As good as the one called housecleaning. Thoreau might not approve. But he liked to stand by a pond and watch frogs mate. To each, his own.