The broom is an ancient and universal tool. Whether you have a dirt floor or one of white polished marble, someone is going to sweep it. I was thinking about that as I started my morning ritual of sweeping out, first the kitchen, then the entry way and finally the patio where there was an odd assortment of things that had collected since my sweep the morning before. The cat had killed and plucked the feathers from a Black-Crested Titmouse, a sweet little bird with a black tuft on its head. It flits and flies from perch to perch around the house.
It was bound to happen sooner or later. Otis had brought one of my lunge whips over from the barn and neatly and completely chewed the long swinging part off of it. What was left, lay beside a deer antler and one of my sponges. I had started a job with it, set it down when I got distracted and obviously not finished. The consequence was that it too, had been chewed into fifty or so small, uniform pieces. Blossoms from the begonia that hangs by the door, had fallen and their pink and fushia colored petals were scattered here and there on the gravel and concrete surface. I don’t mind sweeping. It symbolizes a fresh beginning to the day. It warms my muscles and gives me a chance to clear my head of the sleep fog that lingers. I actually treasure this time in the morning. It is my meditation.