My beloved cleans her apartment every weekend. She vacuums the floors before she wipes them with a wet mop. Then she cleans the bathtub, the sink, and the toilet bowl. While she is at it, I wipe all the glass surfaces. That includes the dining table in the kitchen, the bathroom mirror, and three coffee tables in the livingroom. On occasion I also wipe the windows. My job is much easier than hers, and it takes much less time to complete it, but it is not entirely symbolic. Which is why I wipe all the glass surfaces with attention bordering on devotion. Cleaning is not my thing, but devotion certainly is. In my mind, it borders on yoga. Karma yoga, to be a bit more precise. When cleaning is not your thing, go for the sublime as swiftly as you can. Or so I nudge myself into action each and every weekend even without a single word from my beloved. All she needs to do is pull the vacuum cleaner out of the closet, and I am off with a bottle of window-cleaning liquid and a bunch of paper towels.