Thursday, July 2, 2009


I find strange things therapeutic. I love gardening, getting dirt under my nails and everything. Tom thinks it is bizarre, but most of the time, I prefer not to wear gloves. I usually wear them only when pulling particularly stubborn weeds and when I am pruning the rosebushes. I'm not entirely sure where this love came from.

I love to paint. Most people see it as a messy chore, but I find peace in it. Solitude, calm. It's amazing how easy it is to transform a space, to renew a room. I am itching to paint, it's been too long. The source of this love, I can identify. It came from my grandmother. That woman painted and painted and painted everything in her house. The cabinets in her kitchen must have had 20 layers on them. So much that it was often impossible to get the doors open without sticking. At some point, a few of the doors lost the ability to close completely. She loved to paint, for her it was therapy too. If she was in the mood to paint, it was best to just get out of her way and let her have at it.

I love to clean out the house and get rid of stuff. This, I know I get from my father. He is the all time king of banishing clutter. My mom will never let him forget the time he donated her Kitchenaid stand mixer while she was visiting me. He tends to clean out the house when she isn't around. I find myself doing it often too, though I would never get rid of my mixer! I've spent a lot of time recently going through the kid's things. The clothes, the toys, the shoes, the stuffed animals that either don't fit or don't get used. They need to go somewhere else. They need to get out of my house.

Is it strange to find such satisfaction in cleaning?

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