I'm having a little trouble seeing meaning in life these days. Or seeing meaning in housework, which is much the same thing. Do the same things over and over, and then they're undone, and you have to do them again. Repeat over days, over years, over generations. True for life, true of housework.
It would be more pleasant to live in a clean house, I admit, but it doesn't seem worth the dedication required. Somehow, I have managed to reach middle age without a compelling sense of "ought" when it comes to cleaning. I clean out of embarassment, when guests are coming, but rarely because I think I can make myself feel better by clearing out dust bunnies and putting papers away.
Though oddly, I do feel better when the floors are clean. And the desk is orderly. And the dining room is not littered with odd things that have found their way to odd places (i.e., the dental floss and needle-nose pliers on the buffet, the washcloth on the old German bible, which in itself is a mystery).
No moral here. No insight. I could post a picture of the laundry on the dining room table, but it's not a pleasing sight.
By the way, I'm hosting a bridal shower for fifteen to twenty guests twelve days from now. The contemplating will have to end and the busy-ness begin. But not for a few days.