Work

One of the things that we do here during the week, in keeping with the Benedictine ethos, is to choose work that we will do in the afternoon. None of it is very complicated, mainly things like stuffing envelopes, trimming pods from the wisteria (before this, I didn’t know that they were so inclined to propagate and spread), deadhead the rose bushes, rake leaves, simple things like that. Way on the bottom of the list of choices was washing windows. Not surprisingly, no one signed up for that. I say not surprisingly, but the truth is that I love to wash windows, and have never understood why so many people don’t. That little phrase supposedly uttered by many a housekeeper “I don’t do windows” always sort of baffled me. So, I signed up, and have spent the last couple of afternoons washing the windows in the refectory and Swing Pavilion. I like it because it is solitary work, and the results are so immediate and apparent. Stepping back to see that clear, sparkling glass is so satisfying.

What has surprised me, is since I started doing the windows, one of the first things I think about when I wake up in the morning (around 5:00) is how much I am looking forward to washing windows that day. It really is kind of strange, especially when I am currently listening to a set of CDs by the wonderful poet and thinker, David Whyte, called What to Remember When Waking Up. Needless to say no where does he mention anything as mundane as washing windows. It’s especially odd in a context like this week, where I am surrounded and immersed in scripture, prayer, and chanting the psalms.

Beyond Windex

There must be something primal about washing windows,

although it couldn’t be too primal because in the large scheme of things
windows haven’t been around that long.
But regardless of that,
the deep satisfaction that I derive from this chore
goes way beyond simple housework
and touches something deep inside.
Why else would I wake early looking forward to this particular task,
especially here while here on retreat,
where I have been given such beautiful and profound thoughts to ponder?

It must be something about vision,
or clarity, or boundaries--
the false divisions that I draw between what is inside and outside,
between me and the rest of the world,
between me and God.

Maybe it’s the satisfaction of knowing that with a little time, a bit of tending,
and a little elbow grease,
I can see through a glass less darkly,
even if just for a little while.