Raking leaves is soul cleansing for me. Yard work always has been one of those household chores I actually liked best, particularly because I get to be outside. That's where my spirit, in particular, seems to find the most peace - a fact that always contradicted my church-going upbringing.
But when it comes to this raking of leaves, I always think
I'm done by the end of fall. And I'm usually glad of it by then because - even
when you like something - a chore is still a chore.
Nevertheless, there is always some old dead stuff still
lying around in the spring requiring attention. And I always seem to forget
about that. I forget how things linger. I forget that - no matter how hard you
try - nothing is ever going to be perfect. I forget that seasons repeat.
And each time I see those dead leaves tucked away in the
bushes in the spring, it always feels like a little bit of a failure on my
part. Like, how did I miss them during the fall? And then the giant leap of
thought, how could I be so stupid? So lazy?
And, you can bet, when I get that defeatist feeling about
it, it is sure to be something I will continue to avoid doing - which merely
adds to the guilt each time I see it.
But today I had had just about enough of my own stinking
attitude. I picked up anything I could find: first a broom, then a rake, and I
raked until the tender, unused skin between my thumb and pointer blistered and
tore. I raked like a woman possessed. And I cleaned all the shit out from under
my bushes.
And, finally, for the first time in the last few weeks, I
really started to feel better.
Not euphoric or anything. But better.
That's why, today, I decided to write about raking leaves as a metaphor for the cleansing of my soul. I always forget that both
tasks are never one shot deals. They are work. And they require repetition.
This is the downside of not being a church goer, or
particularly spiritual at all as of late. For those whom that sort of thing
works, as far as I've grown away from the religion of my youth, I can still see
the attraction.
It's when religion is a need and an overarching reason for
everything that scares me, but this is exactly when you are supposed to want
religion, isn't it? When you need it - not just when it's just convenient. Or
do I have this backwards? Anyway, it's always sounded like a contradiction to
me.
No, I don't think that old religion route in particular will
work for me anymore. Still, no matter how many callused jokes I make about the
"sheeple" of the world, this may be not only because I blame
religions for the harm done, but because I also envy the
peace, beauty, and grace that others find there.
I see the value in talking to the universe or your idea of
God and being grateful.
I also see the value in cleaning house regularly. Even when
a sharp-toothed rake is necessary.
There I go again, sounding all Catholic. But severe corporal
mortification aside, my soul needs to be cleansed - and apparently more often
than I'd like to believe and make time to do so.
For some reason, (no jokes
here recovering Catholics) I feel as though my soul puts out a lot of dirty
gunk during its day to day activities. I am not "green". I'm not even
a hybrid. I am a stinky, gaseous, greasy, old gasoline guzzler. I suck up
natural resources, and I leave a mess behind. That being said, I sometimes can
really steal a scene. I am loud and colorful, controversial and showy, and some
people really love the way my old-school engine roars.
But living life as a monster truck can really take its tole
on you, not to mention the poor souls who happen to live near you - or should I
say beneath you - because if you are anything like me, when you're having a
crisis, you are Atlas up in the air with the heavens on your shoulders. You
feel like you're on the bottom of the chain, but really you're treating
everyone else like they are second to - and below - your pain.
Apparently, I'm old-school Greek, too.
It is at this point that my husband, were he here, would turn to me shaking his head and say, "You think too much." Hardly. But I know what he means. Let the emotion do the work. Stop working the intellect so hard.
However, my emotional side - though loving and all that good stuff - is not very kind when it comes to myself. I have to work at it. Very, very hard.
But maybe this is just my way.
Maybe this is my way to God or whatever that higher power,
that grace, is.
Maybe that guy I knew was right. Maybe I'm a mule. An old work
horse. A modern-day housewife on crack.
Maybe I'm Jesus' Martha, the bad sister
who worked too hard to cater to Jesus when he was her guest.
You see, I don't care if Jesus was real or if he performed
miracles (hence, why I'm not a Christian), but I always kind of dug his story.
(I tend to do that digging-of-stories bit.)
Except in that New Testament tale referenced before, I
always wanted to defend Martha. Maybe she was just trying her best, man. Maybe
hard work is her way to you. Maybe she is running around here cooking and
cleaning and sweating and smelling like a sheep in her best effort, the only
way she knows how, to get to you. To make you love her.
I know I was always missing the point.
He already loved her. She had nothing to prove.
But I am who I am.
Or am I? Could I use a little flexibility - a little (dare I
say?) laziness in my life? A quality that, mind you, I once used to make an art
form.
Should I just make a little more time for tea and let
someone else take care of the pouring?
Should I just open up over some hot water with friends and
steep in those sweet leaves?
There's
that word again.
Perhaps it's not the cleansing of the leaves I should be so concerned with, after all.
Perhaps soul cleaning is nowhere near the right term.
Perhaps I need to just see the leaves and stop looking away
in horror. Then, after said horror, perhaps I need to stop blindly raking at
them in guilt and ripping them to shreds.
Maybe I just need to see them and accept them for what they are.
Not a frightening reminder of the life cycle.
Not a pile of failures attracting bad attention from the
neighbors.
To take this metaphor out to it's only logical end, perhaps
they are, very simply, me.
A work in progress.
Nothing more.
And nothing less.
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