Emily managed the bar across from the town plaza where a worship and free meal had attracted a following. Her co-worker — whom later I would learn was heading to a month-long, partially subsidized artist’s retreat in Finland — pulled the barstools out one at a time and would make one complete circuit in that temporary track with a broom.
It was just a thing that had to be done but the pathway and the migration and dance of the barstools into the middle of the room was a meditation and a small performance usually unseen, silent, appreciated by few.
Whatever was good for the prep kitchen, or front of house, or studio space, was probably good for you. Whenever in doubt, tidy up. I remember, vaguely, a tweet from years ago from the productivity guru; More than fifty percent of living is cleaning up. Didn’t believe him? Show him the inside of your inbox, your car, your desk, your hard drive, your mind.
Or your suitcase, after a month of travel and a load of laundry.
Or ask a parent. Life is just one perpetual dance of the barstools upon which you never sit.
