The Zen of Housework

Sometimes I actually enjoy cleaning the house, especially when I'm doing it all alone. This may sound odd since no one is around to help, but over the years I've found several reasons to clean an empty house, beyond the obvious one of there not being anyone around to mess it up immediately.

First - and perhaps most important though admittedly random - being home alone allows for a spontaneous reenactment of the "Old Time Rock and Roll" scene in Risky Business. As an adult coming of age in the eighties and a long-time Seger fan, I find this a most tempting prospect.

Next is the idea that at any moment I can put down the cleaning rag and walk away. No one is home to ask if I'm finished or to stroll through the bathroom noting vanity items tossed on the chair anxiously awaiting their regular spritz, wipe, and replacement action. I admit, I seldom (o.k. never) stop in the middle of a room, but I can if no one is home to know.

But the best reason to clean when no one else is around is silence. Sure the washer bings out its little tune at timed intervals and the vacuum cleaner roars to life, but the rest of the task is the epitome of serenity. I can hear the clock ticking in my husband's study as I dust in the living room. This faint persistent heartbeat seems to belong to the house itself, and when all is quiet I am somehow more than a resident here.

Often when I'm alone I hear music. Of course many people hum tunes and breathlessly mouth the words to their favorite songs when it's quiet, but that's not what I mean. I mean I hear a radio (for lack of a better description) playing faintly just at the edge of my auditory reach. Sometimes there are voices which I can never understand, but there is always music. Often it sounds like classic, golden-age country with the likes of Hank Williams and Patsy Cline. It has that lonesome, smoky, honkey-tonk sound that vanished long before I was born. When I was younger, this radio in my head spooked me. I would creep from room to room looking for interlopers, hoping not to find any. These days I find the sounds echoing in my home and in my head comforting. I feel connected, as if my grandfather is playing records and hanging out in the basement. This only happens, though, when I'm alone and the house is silent.

Furthermore, after a day of cleaning by myself I am better company. Perhaps the silence makes me more appreciative of my son's talkativeness and constant guitar playing. Perhaps being alone smoothes out the wrinkles in my head and leaves me feeling as pressed and presentable as the clean laundry. Perhaps after the many hours I spend grading seemingly endless stacks of essays (often to no avail since students tend to make the same mistakes over and over), the immediate satisfaction of having a clean house is enough to make my heart leap joyfully in my chest. It doesn't matter which combination of these factors begets the end result. It only matters that I have experienced my Zen state, and am a better person for it.