As I Cleaned the Blinds

As I cleaned the plastic blinds today--each one by hand with a little cloth and hot water--I realized what I wasn't thinking.

I wasn't wishing for different blinds.

I wasn't wishing for other views out of the window that let me peer on the great oak that one autumn dropped so many acorns we had to make acorn flour.

I wasn't wishing for a different task or a more important or glamorous one. I wasn't wishing for my children to be any different from exactly as they are--even the way they make the cookie dough and then abandon it so I'm baking the cookies by myself every single time.

The timer dings as I wring out my cloth, wash my hands, and then bring the cookies from the oven. I arrange more dough on the pan and set the timer again.

I return to the kind of task that nobody will ever notice unless I point it out: "Did you see my sparkling blinds? How clean they are? Did you notice?"

No. Nobody thinks about the blinds.

But still, I stand there and feel settled into the moment and into my own life. I'm cleaning the blinds for me. I'm simply enjoying the routine task of it and the full minute it takes for each little slat.

Nothing has to be different. I'm in no hurry and have no one to please.

So I clean the blinds and thank God for every little thing: the cookies, the blinds, the oak tree, the acorns, and the children here. I wasn't asking for anything else for once in my life.