Written on 08-09-20

This morning I enjoyed housekeeping. It took me two hours to clean the kitchen, vacuum the floors, and dust as I must. Then comes the best part: opening all the windows and doors, turning on the fans, and letting the summer air breeze through the rooms.

There is no metaphor like a wind, a thought worthy of Joyce Kilmer at his worst, but I’ll blow with it, nevertheless.

“Blow, winds blow, and crack your cheeks with rage!”

“Blow, blow thou winter wind
Thou art not so unkind
As man’s ingratitude…”

“The answer is blowin’ in the wind.”

“O Wild West Wind!”

“The winds of heaven…”

The wind is destruction and renewal, spirit and catastrophe, and the little whistle we are urged to use when calling on Jiminy Cricket.   

If we want to be vulgar, we can pass wind.

If we seek excitement, we can ride the whirlwind.

The wind goes everywhere, invisibly, a child’s dream.

Nothing is more powerful, nor more gentle.

No one is more irritating than a windbag.

We have to find our poesy where we stand, and that’s not a bad catch for a morning of washing dishes and vacuuming rugs.

I mean, if you are sheltering-in-place like me, and frustrated by a lack of stimulation, try anything. It is surprising what can be turned up by washing a dish, scrubbing a shower, ironing a shirt.

Entire worlds can be found in a speck of dust, a cracked egg, a drop of spilt milk, the aroma of a well-used coffee grinder.

If what we seek can’t be found in the everyday, it can’t be found.