As I roll into my fourth week of “staying home” I feel slightly guilty about the state of my home. It should be well on its way to squeaky clean. After all- there is no time quite like a pandemic to clean the house. No parties to attend, no fundraisers to organize, no job, not even family birthday gatherings. But a virtual army of sirens is pulling my attention- not the wailing song of emergency vehicles, but an entrancing melody more akin to that which lured Odysseus off his noble route home.
The piles of laundry, mountains of dishes, long lists of tasks to accomplish- these impress me very little. Instead I turn my ears longingly to the sirens’ song- birdsong in the earliest break of day, the soft rustle of leaf debris as the ringneck hurries out of sight, the raspy breath of pencil across paper, the staccato click of the camera shutter, the soothing sound of water rinsing brushes clean. No mop can entice me the way the paintbrush will, no matter how dirty the floor.
These seductive sirens sing from the corners of my tiny world- giving me much to appreciate in these insular days. And when the guilt is loud enough, I will turn to the mountains of dishes, piles of laundry, and army of feral fur bunnies which undoubtedly await.
