I mean, it wasn't like the housework was hiding;
a few piles of laundry sat plainly on our bedroom floor, splashes of water and who - knows - what sat dried on our bathroom mirrors, and the dust on our wooden floors was too thick to ignore.
I sat down at the computer again to try to find a
few words to say how I find God in this daily place and in this work, how I only learned to pray when I began to pray with my hands and my attention on purpose and how most
of prayer to me now is listening and abiding, how I believe it would be nice to have a lovely housekeeper and a clean house and to create amazing soaring art with all
of the white space
of an uncluttered life and glorious heights
of transcendent spirituality, I guess, but I need the God who sits in the mud and in the cold wind, in the
laundry pile and in the city park, who embodies grief and joy, wisdom and patience, loneliness as companionship, renewal with simplicity and a good deep breath, and who even now shows up in the unlikeliest and homeliest
of lives too, as a sacrament
of and blessing for the ordinary things.
Throw in a cold basement (the deep ocean), an active kitchen and
laundry room, some walk - in refridgerators, a
few spare baths that generate clouds
of steam, a maid that sometimes clears the messy
laundry piles and dust from the heat vents, and we get closer to a working model.