I posted this in 2012 and thought it relevant again…

My parents taught me to not see things – to deny their existence. We were kind of like Olympic deniers. I am aware I’d been denying feeling because sometimes they burst forth inappropriately before I went to psychotherapy and figured out their proper role in my life. That was one thing. But I realized when I met my husband that I’d been denying the existence of dirt as well. I do love dirt. I was raised pretty close to the earth in a farmhouse that melded a bit with the out-of-doors, as we called it, what with critters visiting the laundry room at times, birds caught up in the attic occasionally, and constant noises in the walls. Dad came home every day in a filthy car wearing filthy clothes reeking of manure, and Mom was more of a cook than a cleaner. Dust and dirt and cobwebs were kind of accents to my mother’s decorating. My love of dirt comes honestly.

So when my husband and I moved in together I was not the cleaner – he was. I cooked, and he cleaned. The first few times he cleaned the bathroom I was shocked at how beautiful it was, and consequently at the degree to which I’d been denying dirt. That thing sparkled!

Besides being a great housekeeper, my husband is pretty good at poetry too. Here’s a pretty interesting haiku he wrote:

Empty shampoo tubes
Tiles whitened by soap scum
Who will clean the shower?