It's just the light as it pours in, even as shadows linger in the corners. The way the glass reflects, and the dust- when I haven't gotten around to dusting- seems to shimmer in the air as the dog romps by. The Monkey used to call this effect "Floaties". I find a certain fleeting beauty in it, something nostalgic and likened to the silver shavings that fall from my file... evidence that work was done, that life was lived. And then I dust.
Things here are growing fast. The plants, the plans, the swell in my chest. I'm rooting romaine and a relationship, taking care that each has the depth and support needed to unfurl in its most awe-inspiring and promising form. In being given so much, I'm learning to give back and find joy in giving more, even if it's just time or effort, or elbow grease. And so I dust.
Living vignettes in the living room and it makes me smile as I walk by, noting the soft roar of a motorbox and the puddle of sun on the console. Slowing down for a stroke to the haunches, I notice the lacework of fine hairs across the table runner, along the lamp's edge, sticking to the leafy fronds of some nameless deeply green tropical houseplant. It is true, that it's an endless repetition of lying down and cleaning up, but not so pointless if only because of the contented face that cocks towards me. It is the smallest of it all that makes it so big and worthwhile, I think. And so...