I’ve been away for one thing or another for about a week now: busy work, busy play, busy times. While I’ve been gone, roofers have been redoing its top hat.

(Yes, they are hard to find, these illusive roofers. We’ve had three drive-bys in the street stop and ask for their card.)

Today through Monday I am at home, and my house is getting a seeing to inside as well as out.

It’s interesting, the relationship women have been taught to have with our houses. They are reflections of us (we are told) so they better be clean. Is clean more important than cozy? Depends, I suppose, on how you were raised and how far you rebelled.

A Room of One’s Own is a famous essay for women writers in particular. A lot of words boil down to “Do you have space?” Mental space as well as physical. Do you look around and see a place to be while you make art, or do you see a space demanding attention from you?

My house is a sanctuary, for Jack and me, for cats. It’s our space, and during COVID that was true in a strange new way. We’re hospitable, party-oriented creatures, and we enjoy filling the place with friends. During COVID it filled with anxiety, hope, and a whole lot of writing. Two books got written and out the door.

But now, with this chance to please just get a little scrubbing done, I find myself happy. Not as an excuse to procrastinate about writing (Lord knows we’ve all played that game at some point) but about the time to settle in, streamline a couple of spaces for more efficient and pleasant use, reinvent the corners that confine the box in which we play.

So, herewith my random thoughts on one of life’s more mundane chores, one that more often than not keeps women from fulfilling their artmaking. But these next three days, before I get back to writing in all its day job, weekend word warrior, side gig, and fulfillment glory, these next three days feel as full of promise as a blank page.

Let the cleaning commence.