I hate cleaning. Which I believe should be a given, but apparently it isn't. Some people like cleaning. I wish I were one of those people. But I do love having a clean house (not that you would know that if you've visited since Riley was born ... or before that, for that matter, but much more so now). Anyway, I'm a hot or cold girl, and if it can't be clean I don't really care if it's kinda clean, cause kinda clean isn't clean. Or tidy, actually. I care more about tidiness, which apparently isn't next to godliness, but I still like it better. If my living room is organized, I'm happy. If it's vacuumed and the windows are clean, I'm happier, but organized is usually good enough.
But today, cleaning was inspired. Not because I cleaned for an hour, but because I found this stuck in one of my old books part way through (I was sorting books to sell to Smiths so we can get a used Ergo, which I'm excited about). I love that. I forgot about it. Then I was reminded, sat to write this post, and smiled through the rest of cleaning dreaming about how I might fight for time to write tonight.
He ate and drank the precious words,
His spirit grew robust;
He knew no more that he was poor,
Nor that his frame was dust.
He danced a long the dingy days,
And this bequest of wings
Was but a book. What liberty
A loosened spirit brings!
Emily Dickinson
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