Seasonal Cleaning

Every so often, I get an insatiable urge to rearrange things, and clean. Moving and shifting. Flow. Waking corners from their slumber.

Today was one of those days. Seduced by the sunrise. 

And some ancient call. (Wake up. Re-orient). 

Swinging my feet over the bed, I lean forward and push up on the floor. Cold. Like packed beach sand, still algid from night’s air. I stand. Crackling bones and stiff, back singing. My roll call reville.

(I hear you, body!) A twist. Left. Right. Then slowly, pop. A stretching. And exhale.

Beneath the window in front of me sits my father’s old fly-tying table, wooden and worn from use. Adorned once with bits of feather, and fur, and line. Bamboo ferrules and agate guides.

I smile, wondering what table thinks about its transformation — strewn now with books and plants, and hand-written notes on paper.1 Peering out at mountains and valleys, and sky.

I walk toward it, putting my hand on its smooth surface, leaning forward to slide open the windowpane.

A burst of morning rushes in. Crisp and light. Smells of sage and damp rock. Drifts of mountain pine.

I inhale. Reveling. Feeling the warmth of suns’ rays. Cascading gold, through screen, around my body. Like waters murmuring downstream. Pooling gently around my feet. Bare.

Beneath me lluminated, patterns dance. Colors of dark brown and hay. Waves of grain, zig-zagging into knots.

In the air, specks of dust sashaying in the breeze. Flitting about. Floating. Like leaves loose from a tree, off on some adventure.

I spin on my heel in delight, running my eyes along walls and ceiling as I turn. Pine beetle wood adorned in blue, and grey, and straw.

On shelves, tomes from a friend — poetry, science, dreams, and beat. Neat, and tidy. Raw. With just the right amount of askew.

I smile. Enlivened by the energy I feel flowing through me. Inspired to rearrange things, and clean. And play with space. Not because it’s dusty (though it is some, always!). Nor because I’m bored. But because it’s time.

Like the pickerel on Thoreau’s Pond who feels far off, a call. And simply jumps.2

It’s time for home.

Thinking about home is intriguing. I ruminate about this a lot. About what makes up a home — as something not just lived in or worn. But felt.

Like hearing howls (back) from a distant planet.

I muse at my rise this morning in the Hoot Hut, and how I’ve always been a bit of a re-arranger.3 Especially during season’s shifts. In transition.

Home is here for me. In muck and movement. And still.

This morning — with the sun and dust around my father’s table, between pages in books on shelves — I’m struck by the primalness of my urge. As a heart-move. Not just an annoying habit uncontrolled. But a re-orienting of soul. So that whatever needs to flow, can. So that I might see anew.4

Softly, I wipe the table. Re-situating plants in sun. Making room for wet boots on a mat near the door.

Hanging my robe on a hook, I think about my rise. Slow beats on a hand drum. Waking. That call.

And how this reminds me of the day my father died. How after a full meal of treats, and a lay back in his easy chair, he decided it was time. Somewhere off in the distance, a call. Hawk and water. So home he went. An ecologist through and through.

I exhale. Insides spilling out. A heavy laugh, and tears. Bewildered. In this place of grace.

In a dedication long ago, I wrote this about my dad. About his artistry and timing, and adventurous soul. About his wildness and commitment to something more.

Of course he would answer the call. I’ve always known this. But I think today is the first I’ve ever felt it.

Deep in my bones and visceral. As if being shaken to see something new. (Wake up. Re-orient). Filling my lungs with air. Cool. And lightness. His hand in mine. (You did good, kid. It was just my time to go.).

I inhale. Tears on my cheeks. Warm and salty. A distant aroma of sea.

I shake the sheets and blanket from my bed, tucking the sides in loose. Smoothing out fabric with the palm of my hand. Soft.

I wonder if this is what it feels like…beginning to forgive yourself. I don’t know yet. Maybe?

On my father’s desk, a stack of books is eyeballing me. (We need rearranging).

My hands go to work. A ceramic vase and rock. Pinning sweetgrass on a push-pin board. Hung just so.

I pause, sitting for a moment. In silence. Warm sun on my face.

There is wisdom in these wounds. In nature’s callings. In these beginnings and ends, and beginnings again.

3

Funny fact: I stayed at a home in Missoula last Fall for a work gig I was doing at the university. Upon checking in, a laminated instruction sheet sat on the kitchen counter, written (it seemed) just for me — Bullet point eleven: No rearranging furniture. I laughed out loud and immediately sent a photo to a couple dear ones of mine who I knew would appreciate the irony. (It’s only funny, because it’s true! And sometimes I really do need to be firmly told: “Please stay and enjoy. But while you’re here, keep your mitts out of my kitchen!”).