Got up this morning, made the bed, and thought, this is an odd thing, making my bed when no one is looking. But I did it, continued on, because I like the way the squares of the quilt look when it’s smooth and runs to the pillows that are topped with other pillows covered in their coordinated shams, and it all matches the newly painted accent wall. And then I went into the bathroom for my morning routine with everything just so, including my precisely allocated medications, the countertops empty except for the needed things, and the toilet, likewise, clean, sparkling.

And now I am at my desk in the well-organized kitchen beside the living room I cleaned the day before. All the books on the coffee table are in the library upstairs, the hearth and floors are vacuumed, the windowsills and furniture dusted, and I even put new doilies on the coffee table and end tables, to match the season. And later this morning I will likely mow and edge and give the yard a little love.

And I did all this, do all this, for, pause, me. Humm. Why? I guess it’s for the same reason I visit doctors, to hold off my inevitable decay and decline, and to put some order into an inherently disordered universe. Sounds selfish. I guess it is, in a sense. But at least I know the way to my own contentment around the house and that seems worthwhile. Now, if I could just do the same for my mind, I’d be in really good shape.