There have been times when I really needed them. The windshield wipers give their patient and plodding assistance as the rain pelts down, or bugs splat on the glass. The pair seem to hold no angst about the task. Swishing is in their nature. Then when the storm is over I click them off. They take no offense whether they wave or wait.  

A friend compared the gnats that hurl into his vision to the pesky thoughts that show up uninvited. 

"That is a dumb song."

"Why is that driver so slow?"

"I bet my spouse forgot that we are going out tonight."

His response is to wipe them aside. They seem to appear in clouds, persistent as the mosquitoes in July. But he need not get riled up about it. Just swish.

My friend's stance is that negative thoughts are in some ways inevitable. But that does not need to imply guilt, any more than I take responsibility for the precipitation. Yet if I allow the bugs or drops to build up it impedes my view. 

The other day the inner monologue started streaming about who does or does not do chores. I bashed around clearing counters, and emptying trash cans more out of revenge than from a desire to create a nice living space. 

Then I remembered. Wipe.

As my hand slid across the now gleeming granite I noticed its beauty. I remembered the day John and I went in the freezing December cold to pick out our slab. All of them were beautiful. But this one told a story. Quartz, mica, and feldspar that were once bubbling lava. Hundreds of thousands of years old.

All mine to behold if I only take a moment to wipe the clutter away.