Dirt

Why does housework seem so draining, so degrading, so thankless? The view of a sink bursting with dirty dishes throws me into a state of paralyzed agony, let alone the sound of clanking plates and glasses, which although always changing, becomes a monotonous symphony. Every clank of dust on the floor and every thread of spider web on the celling brings forth a guilty thought of being the spreader of dirt. While I sink my hands into a sink full of dirty dishes scraping the dried up stains of yesterday's dinner, some of which associate with momentous conversations of last night's meal, every fiber of my being is fighting with nausea of dirt's smell, of dirt's touch, of dirt's continuous, quiet and constant accumulation. However, at the moment of complete despair on realization of the eternal and unbeatable power of dirt, of this evil entity which has a constant presence in my house, I realize its global quality.

A wise woman has once said that dirty dishes need to be washed by an American woman, as much as by the African one. Dirt accumulates in every corner of the Earth, in every house and building. However, I am the lucky one that I can wash my dishes in the quiet of my own home, surrounded by the normal sounds of passing traffic, blowing wind and occasional sound of emergency sirens; in a house infused by sounds of my children's laughter, beautiful music, loving poise and occasional argument. That is while other women (and men for that matter) have to face tragedy, loss, sacrifice, for whom destruction of dirt is not even an issue. These lonely and frightened, brave and hungry souls would love to make dirt their main enemy and would love to be able to have a home to clean and to take care of, along with its inhabitants. Placed in this global context, fighting dirt then becomes a privilege and taking care of my house becomes a very loving and thankful duty.