If you spot me exiting the supermarket with armloads of bath salts and home cleaning products, odds are I’m really stressed out. I can live with a less than sparkling bathtub, with teetering piles of books by the bed, and mail stacked up on the kitchen island. But when I’m anxious, ordinary messiness feels toxic and I devote myself to cleaning house. I don’t fight this instinct; the effort takes my mind off whatever is troubling me, and the end result is so worth it. Besides, I could just as easily give in to sloth, wrap myself in blankets and eat ice cream out of the carton. This happens, too.

Perhaps I inherit my need to clean from my parents. The family home was always spic and span, quite the accomplishment for a place housing seven people, a number of whom played contact sports and came home dirty. Every Saturday my parents posted a list of chores that we kids were expected to help with, and we did. We vacuumed, did laundry, cleaned bathrooms, and assisted in any home improvement projects. It wasn’t fun, but it was mandatory and, like some of the Catholic education that was also compulsory, stuck with me more than I realized at the time. Cleaning house also feels very adult and responsible. It appeals to that part of me that aches for order when life presents me with relentless inconstancy.

Before the cleaning comes the purging. Heavily influenced by Marie Kondo, I now have a little voice in my head that calls me out on a disorderly desk, an overstuffed closet, or multiples of anything that doesn’t “bring me joy.” What does bring me joy? Decluttering and increasing available space, not for more stuff, but for breathing room. I routinely cull belongings, sometimes ruthlessly, as I can so easily get caught up in sentiment or thrift and lose my way. The books I’ll never read, the gifts I won’t use, the clothes unworn in the closet--all must go!  I accept that this winnowing is a “to the end of my days” task because items keep washing up on my shores.

When I clean, I clean deep. I break out the old toothbrushes to scrub around faucet, cabinet and door knobs. I scour counters and polish table tops, sweep, swiffer and vacuum, clean windows, and dust the slats on venetian blinds. I get down on hands and knees and sponge up the grime behind toilets and sinks. I dust baseboards and ceiling fans. I do it all.

The biggest job, the one that takes the most muscle and is done only seasonally, is machine-cleaning the floors. I move all the furniture and roll up the rugs in preparation for the floor machine I borrow from a friend. This lovely device scrubs our wood floors with rotating cleaner-soaked wool pads. Once the floors dry, I vacuum both sides of the rugs before I put them back in place and return the furniture to each room. I feel so accomplished when I’m done that I wonder if my house would, if it could, give me a gentle pat on the back and thank me.

Sometimes I’m coughing as I work as I rarely wear a dust mask. My hands roughen and my hair sticks out in odd places. I look a bit like Lucille Ball in cleaning mode. But when the cleaning campaign is complete, I love the results, especially the smell. I use products that leave a light lime or lavender scent, which never fails to make me smile. To be honest, if I were wealthy, I wouldn’t turn my nose up at hiring a cleaning service. But, as I’m not, I try to keep up with the help of my equally tidy husband, who shares the workload.  I’m more of a deep-cleaner and he’s more of a general tidier. Together, we’re a perfect match.

There’s so much that can get away from me without vigilance: the size of my gmail inbox, the work I’m tasked with, the garden in front of the house, so desperate for weeding, the projects I put off because of time or money. How do you work full-time, manage the various areas of your life, and still reach those stars, those dreams you’ve held close to your heart for so long? Something’s gotta give, and I sacrifice my need for order in other areas. My husband will attest to that, and he’s the same way. But at least I have this, from which I gain much comfort, my clean, well-tended, and welcoming home. And then it’s time for the bath salts. Ahhhh….