This is the view from the floor of our bedroom, noticed when I was down on my back vacuuming the feral dust bunnies from under the bed. I move through this room every day, but rarely look up. So much of the world is unseen not because it is hidden but because we won't turn our heads. Seeing this "new view" made me wonder what else I am missing and reminded me of how easy it is to become stuck in my habitual thoughts and attitudes.
Cleaning the bedroom is always a metaphor for introspection. It is a private space that collects a lot of detritus from the rest of our house and our lives, without the sunshine of outside eyes. Little by little stuff piles up until the furniture is buried and the floors disappear. There is always something else to do so I put off reckoning with it, but when I finally can't stand it anymore, it is an emotional experience. As I dust and scrub and vacuum I think about who I am, what I have done and what I hope to do in the future in a way that cleaning the kitchen never elicits. Sometimes I cry, as longings, frustrations and regrets roll up from the depths. As I work, I see ever more to do (which is another reason why I put it off) but it reminds me of what a labyrinth each of us is to ourselves. A lifetime is not enough to explore our inner landscape.
One of the things that I encounter as I clean is the wish to penetrate more consciously into the unseen. It has always seemed to me that there is more to life than the surface world, but I have never found a reliable door into what I sense is there. Religion is the institutionalization of this common human intuition and urge, but has proven more a wall than a window for me. I have read a lot about shamanism and alternative spiritualism, but after initial hopes, nothing has lasted. Meditation helps, but I still have the sense of waiting outside for admission to the garden. Maybe it is life itself that blinds me and that all will be revealed after I die, or maybe I just haven't turned my head to see what is obvious. At least the bedroom is tidy.