The other day I was doing dishes. It was a daunting task, as we had done more running around than usual and there were piles stacked on top of piles, waiting their turn. The gloopy macaroni and caked on chili had begun the process of becoming petrified, and what were once freshly cut veggies were now shriveled and rubbery, more like Playmobile accessories than food. I cranked up the music to cheer me on as I scraped, rinsed and scrubbed.

 

A few songs later, I began to see the clean dishes looking out from under the frothy water. I love my plates, both the Bunnykins I bought on ebay and the ones we made with our children's drawings and pictures over the years. My daughters' faces smiled up at me, to silently thank me for liberating them from the grime.

 

Where did the clean come from? It was an instantaneous response to chasing away the crud. Funny, that there is not a product in the grocery store called "Sparkly" that I need to apply after I take off the mess. There is no transition that I can point to. When the leftovers are removed, clean pounces into the vacuum.

 

I have made a genuine effort to curb my criticism when John misplaces things. He will wander through the house asking "Have you seen my glasses?" or " Where did I leave my keys..."

 

I tried to picture a scale, with his propensity to lose things on one side and my tendency to criticize  that habit on the other. I imagined which is heavier, and watched the contempt thunk like an anvil, while forgetfulness floated away on a passing breeze.

 

It appears that applying Nice to my personality profile is less urgent than removing Mean, if dishes are any illustration of the process.