You may touch the dust but please don't write in it
Very pleasant morning spent learning cleaning techniques at the museum. The place is badly in need of a thorough summer-cleaning, with fall-, winter-, and spring-cleanings to follow just to make up for months of neglect, but they're willing to pay me for four or five hours of overtime curatorial dusting and polishing a month, and I'll do what I can. The curator, who hasn't been around since May, was all, "Don't touch the X! I clean that like clockwork every year! Don't try to move the Y, we'll just have to do it again in three months' time when the plasterers come in! Leave the dust kitties strictly alone, they're domesticated!" OK, I made that last one up.
There are two kinds of cleaning that are like a meditation process and make me feel inner peace when accomplished: tidying my room, and neatening some semi-public space I value, like the museum. I wonder if it's some sort of religious impulse translated to fit my atheistic values. (That said, I'm currently procrastinating from doing the laundry. Guess I'm not the greatest Daughter of Martha ever.)
There are two kinds of cleaning that are like a meditation process and make me feel inner peace when accomplished: tidying my room, and neatening some semi-public space I value, like the museum. I wonder if it's some sort of religious impulse translated to fit my atheistic values. (That said, I'm currently procrastinating from doing the laundry. Guess I'm not the greatest Daughter of Martha ever.)