14.11.015

It's the 9 o'clock hour of the morning. "I Thought I Was an Alien" by Soko is playing, and I'm standing in the beams of sunlight streaming in through the kitchen window. I am about to make oatmeal for breakfast.

I have been thinking, as of late, about the transmutation of thought and intention (now: "People Always Look Better in the Sun" is playing) into the realm of the physical. I have been thinking about ghosts, so to speak, and the Japanese/Shinto concept of what can only be described in English as a "soul": a sort of life-force which can be held by inanimate objects, and which is created ("We Might Be Dead By Tomorrow," now-- Cyan, I wish we were talking) by the interaction between a human and an inanimate object.

I have been thinking, specifically, about the concept of "home"-- in the abstract-- and the ties between that abstract concept and physical spaces. More specifically, I have been thinking about sweeping the floor ("No More Home," now, sings Soko), and how such acts of cleaning, mindful maintenance of one's domicile, can create a real-world, physical, almost-tangible and definite feeling of "home."

(I have now sunk to the floor, which is littered with the dirt and detritus of living, as well as the salt crystals which I spilled the other day from a broken bag of magnesium salts-- lavender-scented-- which I purchased for the bath.  I have sunk to the floor to continue writing, and, perhaps, to examine the floor as I make my next statement:)

The thought has crossed my mind that certain acts of domesticity-- cleaning, cooking, washing dishes, painting walls and hanging art, arranging furniture and houseplants, sewing and hanging curtains-- especially when performed mindfully, or when the experience is performed in tandem, by multiple individuals (friends, family members) at once, or in concert-- these acts must be what imbue an otherwise-meaningless physical space, physical objects, with the "soul" which gives them real-world meaning. These acts-- which so many people view as a waste of time, and so either rush through them, hire "lessers" to do them, or else ignore them all entirely-- are what make a real "home."

I have been trying to find my home for a long time now.  Despite what I think I understand of Buddhism-- non-attachment, lovingkindness, and an active and mindful engagement with the present-- I have been placing my thoughts, hopes and energies into a very tenuous and unreal "future," wherein I believed my home lay.

Soko is still playing (how are you? how are you? she choruses), the sunlight is still streaming in.  Time to make oatmeal.  Then I really need to sweep this floor.