There were no singing mice. Fortunately, no mouse droppings, either.
There was no stepmother, wicked or otherwise. And catty stepsisters were also noticeably absent from the scene.
No gown, no glass slippers.
And certainly no prince.
Yet, my morning spent in the Cinderella-as-charwoman mode provided the occasion for just a little dancing, even if it was not going to be a ball. That’s because when I put on my oldest clothes, and knelt on the hard kitchen floor to give it a good cleaning, I made the task into a time for productive reflection.
I’ll admit, I’m not generally a fan of floor cleaning. In fact, I’m among the vast multitude of women and men today who find they must prioritize other tasks that put bread on the table over getting on their knees to do a truly thorough kitchen floor cleanup. But when June’s endless rains finally led me to filling planters on my kitchen counter instead of outdoors, my obviously inadequate sweep-up of inevitable potting soil spills made it clear that it was time to get up close and personal with that hardwood floor.
It may be no fairy tale to rub with a rag at stubborn grime, but in June 2009, it can be the occasion for discovering one’s own true grit. For me it became a time to be glad for having a home at all, even one with a grimy floor that demands cleaning. Like so many people today, I find myself looking at my house less as the place where I love to live and more as an asset that ought to be maintained in case it must be sold. And so I started off with the bittersweet thought that hardwood floors are plusses in real estate listings. That thought was followed by a question about how much of the floor I actually own, since of course the bank also has a stake in my place.
Clearly, this line of thought was not destined to make me feel cozy. In response to the stress of it, I rubbed extra hard. And then, as I saw the grime lift, so did my spirits. This was not only because the floor began to shine, but because it occurred to me that I ought to see my tenancy in my home as more precious for its tenuousness. It followed that I should enjoy whatever time I have here to the fullest. And that includes time cleaning that hardwood floor, not just because it is a real estate asset to be preserved, not only because it is more welcoming and healthy to live in a clean house, but because, for however long I am here, this is my home.
And that’s when I realized that there is something I will own whether or not I am able to spend many years in my house. I knew my ability to wipe worry away and reveal something positive underneath was the asset I would possess whether I live in my beloved Rockland house, or some studio apartment in a city or — if a prince actually does arrive on the scene — even in a castle. And on that note, when the floor was buffed to a lovely sheen, I took off my shoes and executed one spinning pirouette on the shining surface, while my head spun with gladness for all that I have.