Sometimes housekeeping feels overwhelming.

Entropy threatens every open piece of carpet, every counter top. Young people scamper vigorously, moving toys from room to room, scattering them like so many breadcrumbs that create no discernible trail home, instead appearing as an expansion of territory outward from the playroom. Brightly colored chaos of sharp objects to distract the eye or puncture the soft underside of a misplaced foot.

Maintaining order seems an impossibility.

And then I realize that, in nature, one stiff breeze or an unobservant jogger or an errant pine cone can take you back to square one.

I don’t know how a spider thinks, but I imagine she does not take time to feel sorry for herself and the state of her thrashed web. She does not fret about having enough time to construct a new web or the seeming futility of starting over again and again, building something that is, by its nature, impermanent.

Regret is not part of her internal dialogue.

Order and tidiness are impermanent, just like the spider’s construction.

Overwhelm is not productive. It is just a feeling, though a powerful one once set in. Overwhelm annexes our focus when we operate mentally and emotionally outside the present moment, trying to manage the worry about what must happen next or what should have happened in the past. If only we can dial into this moment and its best application. Put this moment to use, be there. Then the next. Present always.

Build another web if you want to eat. No time to worry about being too busy. Start spinning the next web.