dust

I really don't like dust.
I don't like looking at it, lurking on my floors and bookshelves, showing off its ability to coat any old surface it pleases as quickly as I can ride up a canyon.
I don't like breathing it in.
I don't like knowing that the minute I sweep or vacuum it away it will immediately begin the process of recollecting.

the other day I left my sliding glass door open to allow a beautiful breeze access to my fresh-air-starved office. within an hour I noticed that my black shelf had turned gray, the coating of fine particles covering every single available surface. which of course meant dust had settled in all those other places I couldn't see, as well. argh.

dust represents all those things in life that mess with my plans. that harsh my mellow. that make me think I'm on the absolute wrong track.
those things that interrupt the flow, that make it difficult to believe that all is well.
dust is the broken bone that keeps you from participating in the sport you love; it's the fabulous deal you've worked hard to arrange that falls apart. it's the car that unexpectedly and expensively breaks down; it's the leak in the pipe under your sink and the rejection letter from the 30th agent you've solicited.
it's all dust.
it's inevitable, and it's temporary.
it's something to deal with, and then it's behind you.
it comes again, and you send it on its way again.

there's dust on my hardwood floor today, and I know that when I take the time to vacuum and mop that dust away, I will see that beautiful, warm, glossy wood and remember not only how much I love it, but how it is always there, underneath whatever might temporarily settle upon it.
and while dust comes and goes, that deep, rich, indefatigable foundation of flooring is always there, supporting me even more than I realize.