The news has been a bit much lately. (Bear in mind as I say this that I work in the media, and pretty much live/breathe/sleep wire feeds some days) But between the VT shootings and the increasing violence overseas and the acid on the slide in Baltimore and a million other things, it's all too, too much.
This has been happening with increasing frequency. My response, more often than not, has been to turn to my home. You can gauge how bad the world is going by how organized my cupboards are. If all the laundry's done and I've hung new curtains, if the book shelves are dusted and the kids' rooms tidied, it's a fairly safe bet that the world's not going well. (Watch out. If I get to defrosting the freezer, the Apocolypse is nigh.)
For a long time, I've been ashamed of this tendency. It's the worst sort of personal isolationism: I can't deal with the world, so I'm going to worry about my little corner and pull up the drawbridge and keep this small acre secure.
There's a comfort to be found in routine. In the basic, pure control of finding something dirty and making it clean: of taking raw materials and creating the other, of starting seeds and discovering yet again that no matter what we do, life continues on.
Maybe rather than hide this strategy, it would be wise to share it. To say, hey, you're stressed out. Try washing walls. Sure, it's a mindless job. About as mindless as they come, in my house. (Scrubbing paneling doesn't take all that much brainpower) Do it for an hour or two. Give all your attention to the wall. Don't think about little kids gunned down too soon or bad things in the sandbox. Don't think about politics or slanted coverage or how many column inches went to the bass fishing tourney compared to the supreme court decision. It's just the wall.
It's almost meditation. It's meditation with motion, meditation with purpose. It is you, and the wall, and the wall's not saying all that much. It's a time of stillness, and at the end, you have accomplished something tangible. You have moved -- which, compared to the majority of my day, is noteworthy -- and perhaps, most importantly, on some miniscule level, you have elected to effect change.
For me, this helps me recharge my batteries. I'm restored by making small changes to go back out and make large ones. Buying that pause affords me so much.
Anyway, enough rambling. What are your thoughts on the therapeutic nature of housework?
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The melding of a southern heritage and Methodist religious tradition makes me genetically incapable of dealing with strong emotions (mine or those of others) with out some kind of food.
