Last Wednesday morning found me on my hands and knees in the bathroom, vigorously wiping down the floor mats from the new-to-us Tacoma truck. In the small space between when Patrick leaves for work and it’s just light enough for my morning walk, I crossed that task off my to-do list with inordinate joy. I know trucks and mud naturally pair up, but we don’t drive this one much (for a 2018, it’s in almost pristine condition, low miles and not a scratch anywhere, I swear) and I’m not above taking a pair of tweezers to those little grains of grit that the dust buster hand vac missed. Considering it was just over a year ago that we’d totaled our other two trucks in a span of two weeks, I’m determined to make this one last as long as I possibly can, coming right up to the edge of neurotic.

Such devotion calls up a sweet memory. A few Toyotas ago, on the day of my dad’s funeral, I was filling up our new one at the gas station and noticed a gathering of rust on the rear chrome bumper (four flakes, if you must know). Without even stopping to consider my options, I spit-shined it away, amusing a fellow traveler at the next pump who, noticing the temporary tags, remarked rather wryly, “they gotta get dirty sometime, ma’am”. I smiled at him, assumed he was channeling Dad’s humor and climbed back into the cab, making my way toward one of life’s more difficult days. How often grace wears the face of a stranger.

Visitors to our home (when that’s safely possible again) probably wouldn’t use “pristine” to describe our humble dwelling, but I think “tidy” would be within reason. We all have our quirks and rules when it comes to keeping house. I can overlook quite a lot depending on the work week I’m having, but I own those non-negotiables that begin and end my day’s routine no matter how tired I am. I won’t head to the office or work in my studio unless the dishes are washed, even though I can close the door to the studio and forget we have a kitchen for a few hours. I clean as I go when I’m baking and have a hard time sitting down to a weekend lunch unless the sink is empty. Common areas are monitored closely for stray socks and jackets that didn’t quite hit the coatrack behind the living room door and handmade throw pillows nestle in the corners of chairs, arranged carefully by height and size (smaller ones in front, and directional patterns on the fabric must be right side up). I get a kick out of seeing my distorted reflection in the unblemished and gleaming bathroom faucet and the week is off to a good start when I’m the first to use the restrooms at the office on a Monday morning (as evidenced by the calm blue water in the toilet bowl of the first stall). Is that weird? That’s probably your call, not mine.

A dawning realization here: cleaning is about control. And while I’m not inclined to describe myself as someone with control “issues” (c’mon, who doesn’t?), I’d like some latitude for taking care of my small sphere of influence while a global pandemic crawls into its third year and I slept through the gust of wind that toppled our outdoor grill last night (yes, I needed to set it up on its now-questionably sturdy metal legs before I could finish that last sentence). Removing even a thin layer of dust on the bookshelves reminds me that I can do something to improve my lot, no matter how small. These days we need those victories.

It may also be a simple winter survival strategy. We’ll be spending a little more time indoors surrounded by the stuff within our walls, so best to keep things uncluttered and bright. Having a clear place to sit and a kitchen ready for those impromptu cozy baking sessions is just plain smart, good for one’s morale. But curiously, at the end of this morning’s walk, I puttered around in the almost-sleeping garden for nearly an hour, covering the longest of the raised beds with some empty paper leaf bags made soggy by yesterday’s rain and finishing it with a blanket of straw mulch. A drizzly snow fell while I gathered up the remaining bits of hardware cloth-turned tomato cages, corralling them in the bed of a trailer we bought to haul topsoil and t-posts. I felt nurturing and motherly and not at all fussed that my gloves were soaked. The landscape was dressed in muted browns and grays fuzzed over in a thin fog; I rotated my gaze slowly across the expanse of dormancy, losing myself in a swirl of appreciation for my circumstance. Apparently, “clean” has a wide orbit in my life and benefits that stretch well into the realm of spiritually satisfying. Not a bad way to start the day.

Whatever it is that nudges me toward order out of chaos, I’m especially thankful for it lately. Forecasts for the season ahead include far more than some rough weather. In the calm of a clean house, I’ll do what I can.