I don’t like cleaning.  I love having clean and organized spaces, I am just not a fan of doing it.  It is not that I am lazy.  It is that I’d rather be making, inventing, concocting, building, cooking, baking, creating, or hiking in the woods not cleaning, clearing, and editing.  I am pretty good at ignoring the clutter and the dust, to a point.  When I start to struggle to find space to do the fun things, that is when the blinders come off and I have to accept that the task needs to be faced.  I do get some satisfaction when I have completed a cleaning job, but it is usually quashed by the angst, frustration, and loud and frequent expletives that precede it.  Presently, I am working on tidying and purging my working space.  It is overwhelming, the crap that accumulates.  Bits of this’ and thats of mine, of the kids’, of the husband’s.  No flat surface, shelf, or floor space is safe from the clutter.  It isn’t like it’s garbage or dirty dishes or anything like that.  It is mostly stuff: books, game pieces, bits of paper, and tiny things like marbles, doll shoes, Lego, the detritus of living with six people.  Oh and dog hair, can’t forget the dog hair.  There are also the might things that hold up my progress.  I do not need this, I am not using this, BUT I might need it at some undetermined time in the future.  Do I keep these things?  Do I move them on?  Do I stop and read a book instead and hope that I can come to a decision through osmosis?  The other thing that I have found is that I seem to make a bigger mess when I am cleaning.  How does that happen?  I know I am throwing things out, putting things away, moving things on, but suddenly there is nowhere to place my foot to walk out the door.  It is like the clutter is multiplying to counteract my threat to its existence.  Maybe it is…or maybe I am having a Sisyphus moment…or maybe it will become more manageable if I look at it again tomorrow.