Dust bunnies
For some unknown reason, I decided to do a deep clean of the downstairs hallway. This involved not only mopping the floor tiles (which I try to do yearly, whether they need it or not), but also pulling a towering wardrobe and a big bookcase away from the walls. Those things I do no more than once every ten years. And I have to say, it looked it. Behind these hulking pieces of furniture was a decade’s worth of misplaced pencils, paper scraps, clotted spider webs, a filthy sock or two, some random coins, and a magnificent collection of vintage dust bunnies.
I vacuumed, scraped, and scrubbed till everything gleamed. But I really don’t know why. If I hadn’t pulled out the furniture, neither I nor anyone else would have seen all the debris. And what’s wrong with a collection of assorted shmutz accumulating quietly in these inaccessible locales? Some might say it’s health hazard. But is it really? I doubt that colonies of coronaviruses were breeding in the muck, ready to spring out and attack unsuspecting passersby. And even the particles of dust probably don’t launch themselves from behind the wardrobe to penetrate respiratory passages and elicit allergic symptoms, or worse.
But still, albeit unseen and benign, the filth beckons. I must admit that at some level I always knew it was there—occasionally when I passed the wardrobe I’d hear the mutterings of the dust bunnies, taunting me. And, of course, once the dirt is revealed it’s impossible to ignore; the genie can’t be stuffed back into the bottle. So having viewed the dust disgust I had no choice but to deal with it. Now everything, seen and unseen, is sparkling; the spaces behind the wardrove and the bookcase are pristine.
So now what? Should I regularly move the furniture and prophylactically clean to prevent a new bunny invasion? Or should I just let the furniture be until, again, the spirit moves me to move the furniture? Or should I think about this problem in an entirely different way?
As the alert reader will appreciate, a multilevel metaphor is lurking…
On one level, hidden but known detritus is present in so many aspects of our lives. This could simply be termed “clutter.” From obsolete files on the hard drive to piles of magazines and letters tucked away in drawers. It’s so easy to ignore them. But like the lurking dust bunnies, they do nag. Venturing into the depths of the storage room and investigating a dusty box is tempting. But also threatening—remember what happened to Pandora!
The solution, of course, is not to let all that stuff accumulate in the first place. Easy to say. But what do you do when out of town friends suddenly announce that they’ll be coming to visit in a few days and you need to clean out the guest room in a hurry? All the stuff that was haphazardly piled on the bed (theoretically poised for eventual sorting) gets thrown into a big packing box, which finds a new home in the garage, and is soon forgotten. Until you trip over it, or the water heater springs a leak and the box’s soggy bottom can’t be ignored.
Then there are the emotional dust bunnies. Of course they’re different for everyone, but almost no one can navigate life without accumulating some—or usually, many–of them. Like physical dust bunnies, they are easily overlooked most of the time. But at some level we know they’re there. And like pulling a bookcase out from the wall, certain events can suddenly bring them to light: Getting a call from an estranged sibling, running into an old lover at the grocery store, attending a wedding, being fired without warning. Such unexpected occurrences expose these emotional dust bunnies—guilt, regret, jealousy, longing, anger–all sorts of unresolved feelings. Just as I could have simply shoved the bookcase back over the shmutz, one can simply push down the feelings that were triggered. But not completely. Even though the dust bunnies are again out of sight, we retain a vivid picture of how they look behind the furniture. Similarly, the vivid emotions triggered by the wedding can’t be shut out entirely; they linger, and intrude.
As I said, we can deal with dust bunnies in different ways: one strategy is to never move the furniture away from the walls so as to never confront them. The emotional equivalent is to shut down, avoiding emotional investment in others. Or we can take a deep breath and confront the mess straight on with broom and mop, sweeping and scrubbing until it’s all cleaned up. The psychic equivalent would I guess be to fearlessly acknowledge and address uncomfortable feelings that you are aware of, following them wherever they lead. Then deal with them. But here’s where the analogy breaks down: though sometimes a real pain, the way to clean up physical dust bunnies is usually clear and, with enough persistence, effective. But the emotional ones can be a lot trickier to manage. Focusing on them can sometimes worsen rather than scrub up the mess, at least in the short run.
So what’s my advice? Simply put, I have none. Some people are happier to regularly pull out the furniture, and clean up what was hidden. And to actively reflect on uncomfortable feelings that bubble up, then work them through. Others seem to fare better by letting things fester until they are forced to confront them. As for me, I have no set policy for either physical or the emotional bunnies, though I aspire to be proactive in confronting both categories. I just hope, before the dust settles, to be able to deal with whatever I’m dished.