The existentialism of housework

Existentialism
A philosophical movement embracing the view that the suffering individual must create meaning in an unknowable, chaotic, and seemingly empty universe.–Kathryn VanSpanckeren

Saturday I spent the entire day cleaning house. Not “playing house” but actually cleaning house. I even tackled my bedroom, which is sort of the dumping ground for everything in my house that does not have its own place. I chased the dust bunnies out of the closet (even though in my marriage vows I am released from any contractual obligation to dust anything), located some well-worn hard-wood floor and even made the bed.

It’s by no means immaculate. But I made good progress and although I was beat at the end of the day, it felt good.

My husband and I then attended what I like to refer to as “The Best Kept Secret,” the Saturday session of our Stake Conference (religious meeting). The first talk included some excellent advice about strengthening marriage (post forthcoming), but it wasn’t until the second speaker started outlining historical references regarding different cultures and people searching for sanctuary over millennia that I caught the theme, “Finding a place of refuge.” And it struck a chord.

One of the reasons I dropped everything else on Saturday and just dug in (and kept going long past when I was tired) was because I was driven by a need for a sanctuary, or place of refuge.

Our home is not a sanctuary. On most days I would describe it more like a busy hub. Which is fine. I like people. Action. Distraction. But the busier my hub becomes–the more people coming and going via that hub–the more I find I also need sanctuary.

And right now I’m in a mood in which I am determined to create it. It might seem impossible. The odds are certainly against me…so it may indeed be impossible. But I’ve got to try. Even if it’s just one room at a time.

In any case I think I’m starting to see a little shift in my paradigm. You are all well aware that there are other things I’d rather be doing than housework. But perhaps it is in part because I see it as just that–empty futile “house” “work.” I asked myself, what if I looked at my efforts instead as a form of art?

“I’m creating a sanctuary,” I said to myself out loud while sitting out on the big cushy couch in the foyer. Suddenly I felt inspired and more motivated. And I began to see myself not as a mere slave to the chaos of a split-entry structure but rather as a woman wielding the power of her own free will, finding meaning in the mayhem as the desiginated builder, creator and discoverer of that place of refuge.

It comes down to this:

A). Quasimoto desperately and pathetically screaming “Sanctuary! Sanctuary!”

B). Rosie (my former avatar) the Riveter flexing her Gloveable-clad (magical powers, I kid you not) arm stating, “We can do it!” (”Hmmm. Should I go with the polka-dots or the cherries today?” “Perhaps madame would prefer to do it in leopard skin?”)

Thanks Monty, I’m going with door number 2.