Stay Loose

Sometimes, it's the little things. The other day, I was sitting in my living room in the early afternoon, just sitting on the couch with the blinds open and the sunlight pouring in. I was looking at my rug, which I had vacuumed the day before, and at the floor, immaculate and gleaming in the light. I was thinking how good it felt to be sitting in a clean room, with no visible dust, thanks to my (sometimes imperfect) efforts to stay on a cleaning schedule. Unexpectedly, a feeling of contentment and serenity came over me, and it was all on account of not seeing any dust bunnies under the coffee table.

I've never really enjoyed housework (and am not crazy about it now), but I do like the way I feel once it's done. When I worked full-time, it seemed like a real chore to mop and dust, but now that I've been spending more time at home, I've come to appreciate more closely the Zen of a clean room. Adding to the pleasure was the fact that I had done the work myself. If someone else had done it, I'd probably still enjoy the idea that the room was clean but might be suffering some residual guilt over the fact that I'd had to pay someone to clean up after me. I'd be totally missing the happiness of giving myself the gift of a clean room.

It doesn't sound like much, but believe it or not, it was probably the highlight of my week. Peak experiences come in all strengths and flavors, I guess, from the barely there to the resoundingly dramatic. Watching the light shine on a wooden floor may seem to have little in common with something like, say, reaching the top of a mountain, or even just watching a mountain reveal itself to you from different angles as you drive past it, but they're just different points on a journey.

Actually, I had the mountain experience recently on the interstate out west, and part of the marvel of it to me, then and now, was the fact that I had the capacity to see and respond to the moment regardless of anything that took place on the way to it. The mountain itself seemed to be saying something like, "Be hard, be immovable, be adamantine when you need to be," but there was also a whisper of something else, something like, "And remember how blue the sky was when you saw me, and how free you suddenly felt. Remember how my slopes gleamed in the sunshine. Don't forget."

Well, as Wendy Doniger has said, a mythologist needs both a microscope and a telescope. Sometimes you're looking at a grain of sand and sometimes you're looking at a mountain, but the important thing is to stay open, to retain the capacity to marvel, even though you won't feel it all the time.

Stay loose, everybody.

Kale and Zen

It's a football Saturday in Lexington, and that means coming up with a plan. Not only do you have to figure out how to outwit gridlock on the streets, you have to decide how sociable you want to be if you're on foot. Cars and people stream in from everywhere to converge on Commonwealth Stadium; if you don't meet humanity on the road, you meet them on the sidewalk . . . lots of them. Late this afternoon, I was still trying to decide how to find some fresh air without getting caught up in crowds and finally let my stomach make the call. If I went ahead and fixed dinner, I could go for a walk afterwards and get back before dark.

I spent an hour or so chopping and rinsing and putting things into the Dutch oven while sounds of cars and people increased to a mild roar outside. After eating two bowls of Italian soup with tomatoes and kale, I decided a walk in the Arboretum would likely involve fewer crowds on a football evening than it would otherwise, so I put on my shoes and started out.

I walked outside into the quintessential fall evening in Lexington, with football fans everywhere on my block, a bustle on the streets, golden sunshine, and a pleasant coolness in the air. Though I sometimes don't enjoy crowds, the feeling of festivity was very congenial after a quiet day spent mostly inside. There were cars inching along, white tents with knots of people under them, smells of barbecue, radios broadcasting sports chatter, and faces bright with anticipation of the game. The atmosphere was merry but not rowdy.

I passed fans heading toward the bleachers, security officers directing traffic, and RVs jamming the parking lots opposite the stadium. Once I got into the Arboretum itself, a mellow air of quiet reigned. Most of the people I saw were passing through the park on their way to the main event. It was lovely to be able to set my own pace and not have to contend with a crowded path. I noticed lots of squirrels rustling in the leaves for acorns, seemingly at leisure in the absence of the large numbers of fast-moving exercisers more typical of a mild evening.

The sun was going down in tangerine splendor, I could hear myself think, and the air felt newly washed after yesterday's rain. Near the footbridge, I passed a black cat under the trees, intent on some business of his own, though he paused to take a look at me. After the path bent toward the north, I had a view of the campus water tower up ahead, bathed in apricot light from the sun, and further off, the stadium, its powerful overhead lights contrasting sharply with a dark mass of clouds building up behind it. It looked suitably dramatic as a place of contest, and I could hear the noises of the crowd. When I got to the part of the path that parallels the road, I saw that traffic was still heavy around the stadium, and I was glad to be on my own feet.

I don't know what it was--a burst of energy from the crisp air, the feeling of revelry nearby, the waxing moon overhead, the placid beauty of the park (or maybe it was the kale--it has a lot of healthy properties, I hear)--but as I entered the final Arboretum loop, I experienced a rare thing: without meaning to, I stumbled into the Zen of walking. There seemed to be no resistance to my forward movement; my legs felt strong and my feet invincible. Even the feeling of my feet coming into steady contact with the path was a pleasure. My stride became so effortless that I almost felt the need to put the brakes on to keep from floating off. (I know what you're thinking: If it's the kale that does that, I'm getting some.)

The feeling held, then passed, and then I was making my way across the grass toward the sidewalk skirting the parking lot, encountering stadium-bound stragglers and the same slow line of cars trying to go who knows where and not getting there very fast. The game was underway, things had calmed down on my street, and I could see the lights of home ahead. I was moving at a more mundane pace now, having crossed the invisible line back into ordinary, purposeful walking, and was thinking of dishes and other things I needed to do.

I'll tell you what, though. After I got home and put the dishes in the sink, I sat down with some good, old-fashioned Hershey's dark (with almonds and toffee for extra zest) and tried to eat it slowly. Maybe, somewhere in my mind, I was hoping to build on the essential vitamins and minerals I'd already derived from the kale, but mainly, I just wanted dessert. It was one of the things I was thinking of as I walked down my street.

Hestia Meets Zen: The Housecleaning Blues

Housecleaning is one of those things that goes better with music. I used to have a habit of cleaning on Sunday mornings, and I always picked something lively that would add some pep to the proceedings. It was almost fun, too, floating a mop easily over the floors, with a dance step here and there. I still clean to music, and it's even more necessary these days because I have more furniture now, which makes cleaning harder.

We're not talking about a lot more furniture, but it's amazing how it's made dusting and mopping disproportionately difficult. The pieces I've accumulated were sensible: a desk and chair to assist with the dissertation process, a book carousel to organize all the additional books and keep them close by, an end table with a bin for magazines, a floor lamp to shed some additional light. Besides those, I also have a few things that didn't used to be there tucked away in odd places: a boot box in a corner, a shoe organizer under the bed.

I remember when it used to take only half an hour to dust and mop all the rooms. A while back, I was wondering why it now takes so much longer, when it dawned on me that I have more things to dust around. My living room, which seemed so spacious when I first moved in (almost like a small ballroom when empty) now has much less open space, and most of the furniture that needs dusting has books or other objects on it that have to be moved and replaced. Mopping is like running an obstacle course. It's harder to get to the corners; I have to mop around desk and chair legs, move things out and put them back, and in general be more painstaking.

I think of those Sunday morning cleaning sprees with regret. I like my furniture but can see how it's complicated something that used to be easy. When I bought my desk, I remember being surprised at how much space it took up in the living room; it seemed much smaller on the showroom floor. (The delivery man told me this is a common phenomenon.) Still, the solidity of it seemed suitable to the task, and I have to say it has served its purpose as an organizing platform for writing. It's just that I liked my living room better when it had more open space.

I remember joking with friends about buying my first couch. I took it as a sign that I was solidly in the adult middle class and hoped it wouldn't lead to buying a mess of other material goods. One friend said he had a goal of not accumulating more than he could fit into the back of a pickup truck, which I thought was a worthy aim. I wasn't too far off the mark with my own belongings, which I was then able to fit into a 10 x 10 storage unit. It would take something a little bigger than that now, although I realize what I own isn't much compared to what many other people have.

I enjoy looking at modern architecture and interior design in magazines like Dwell, where the aesthetic emphasizes making the most intelligent use of space, especially when it's limited. I like the way designers approach it not as a problem but as a spur to creativity, as if they're constructing a haiku with space instead of words. I was fascinated by a story about a tiny Paris apartment, that, though multi-level, had less square footage than mine. The occupants (who, as I remember, worked in a restaurant) did not have enough room in their minuscule kitchen to entertain, and the bedroom barely contained a bed, but what space there was had been cleverly utilized to the max. A New York apartment, while not nearly as small, was still tight; it nevertheless managed to squeeze a tiny library into a bedroom and a full kitchen partly under the stairs.

Most of these modern dwellings are uncluttered and sometimes even spare in their furnishings. I like looking at shining hardwood floors, tidy kitchens, and streamlined bathrooms, and it makes me realize that having a lot of things is not what makes a home appealing. My preference falls somewhere in between the spare and the full; pictures, books, and objects collected over time reveal personality and make a place yours, but there is a point where they spill over and start weighing you down.

My friend with the pickup truck rule described the living room I had in another apartment as being very Zen-like. At that time, I felt I had very little and thought of it as a nice way of saying that I still had the living room of a college student. He wouldn't describe my current living room in those terms, which is good in one way. It looks more like the kind of place I imagined for myself than what I had then. But I also realize that in some ways simpler is better. I was right the first time about not wanting to get saddled with too much stuff.

If I do someday have a home like the ones I enjoy dreaming over in magazines, experience has given me a handy rule for furnishing it: the "does it make dusting harder" principle. If I can experience the ease of dancing and singing, ballroom-style, while gliding the dust mop across open floors, I'll know I've done well.