When I am bored, restless, or trying to work something out in my head, I clean.

I put music on, and I clean. I set up the Web cam and open a telnet window and post in Talk Show> on Eschwa and I clean.

I talk to my grandfather on the phone and I clean.

I sweep the bedroom, put the futon in the bedroom back into the couch position, haul dirty linens down to the linen hamper, change the litter box. I let the cats out, I sweep the stairs, I open all the windows and I continue cleaning.

I throw away all the flowers from two weeks ago and put the vases by the sink for washing. I sweep the floor. I take all the classical and new age music out of the stereo and put in Poe, Leonard Cohen, and Jeff Buckley. I sing along to "Hallelujah" and I clean, I swing my hips to "Not A Virgin" and I clean. I change the laundry for my neighbors, chase the cats out of the recycling, get in an argument with Kallisti, and clear off the dining table.

It's warm and I'm wearing long overalls, and I'm ignoring the sunshine and the near-perfect temperatures and I am cleaning the house, sweeping away the fine patina of dust and the things that the cats have disturbed in my absence. I wash the dishes, the new martini glasses, the vases, the silverware, the one knife i've used in the past week. I put away all the leftover soda from the week before last. I throw away uneaten tea sandwiches.

I sweep the kitchen floor. I put the magazines on the coffee table into neat piles, sorted by "haven't read", "have read partially", and "have read all of and should be filed". I boil water for iced tea, which I make in a crockery pitcher, letting it steep and then putting it in the fridge to cool down for tomorrow.

Then I sit. I slump. I pick up a half-finished magazine and read about ice cream bombes and collecting dish towels. I pick up The Child Garden and try to remember where I left off. It turns out I'm only twenty pages from the end, so I read, and I read, while my tea steeps. I curl up on the couch and wait for my laundry to be done, petting whichever cat comes to hand. I remember that it's been a while since I spent quality time with the cats. They rub their heads on my hands. Kallisti lolls on my lap, muttering happily. Juniper licks my socks.

I'm starting to feel a little bit happier.

Then I hear a noise. A popping rustle, a shush of weather, outside. Surely that can't....

But it is.

I walk out on my front porch and look at the sky. It's raining, big, fat, warm drops of rain. I stand, listening, for a few moments, and reach out my arms to touch the rain. After a moment, the last of my resistance collapses, and I pull off my socks, stick them in my pocket, and walk out into the rain. I stand, face tilted to the sky, mouth open, tongue questing on my lips for moisture. I am drinking the rain as it falls, all of me.

I close my eyes and the rain splashes on my eyelids. And I remember.

I remember the language of water, how the voice of each raindrop becomes a chorus becomes a rushing roar becomes one solid voice washing over me.

I remember how the earth smells just after it's started to rain, and the parts of my mind that speaks directly to, speaks of peace and shelter and the generosity of soil and the willingness of weeds. I remember how the past and future sometimes dissolve into one great timeless now, without worry or fear or shame or longing.

I remember pleasure, sharp and sweet against my tongue. I remember days without end and nights everlasting. I remember waking up to the world, and I remember the simple amazement of color, of the fact that color exists, of the fact that the physical world exists and has color and depth instead of just texture and smell.

And the water speaks to me and I remember to be still, to be silent, and to listen for the voice of the divine.

And She speaks.

Afterwards, I go back inside. I am still physically tired, I still ache, but my house is clean and neat enough for me to be happy about, and I am vibrating like the aftermath of a great bell ringing. I fetch my laundry, fold the clean, dry fabric, hold a shirt against my face, and enjoy the warmth and the clean cloth smell of it.

And there are cats to pet and silence, at long last, to enjoy.

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