The Wisdom of Brooms
Or: Why Tidying Up Is Often More Sensible Than Thinking

There are days when one requires a therapist.
Or a guru.
Or at the very least three self-help books with sunsets on the cover.
And then there are days
when one simply needs a broom.
Not a designer broom.
Not a sustainable one with principles.
Just a perfectly ordinary broom that asks no questions
and has absolutely no interest in one's inner life.
Brooms don't concern themselves with feelings.
They concern themselves with floors.
And floors are remarkably unemotional.
Excellent team.

The problem isn't that your life is chaotic.
That's perfectly normal.
The problem is that chaos accumulates.
Thoughts that circle.
Decisions that "seemed quite sensible at the time".
(They weren't.)
Resentment that quietly settles in the corner
and begins acquiring names.
This isn't drama.
This is dirt.
Life brings it in.
Uninvited.
With muddy shoes.
You can analyse every stain.
Interpret it.
Give it meaning.
Perhaps create a PowerPoint presentation.
With footnotes.
Or you can pick up a broom.

A broom knows a few things
we tend to forget:
It doesn't wait for motivation.
It simply begins.
It doesn't want the entire house.
Just this spot.
Then the next.
It doesn't judge.
Poor decisions are dirt.
Embarrassing memories too.
You are neither the floor nor the dirt.
You are the person holding the broom.
And it is ruthlessly unsentimental.
What's been sitting in the corner for years
needs to go.
Even if you thought you might need it someday.

The broom doesn't stop
because "it's all become rather much".
It keeps moving.
Not from courage.
Not from inspiration.
But because standing still cleans nothing.
You may swear.
You may take breaks.
You may drink three coffees in succession
and briefly despise everything.
That's quite acceptable.
But eventually
you must continue sweeping.
Talking about it isn't sufficient.
Listening to podcasts won't do either.
Posts with sad emojis clean no floors.

The truth is uncomfortably simple:
You've known for ages what needs doing.
You know what should go.
You simply don't want to do it.
Because letting go is work.
And chaos is familiar.
So you wait.
For a sign from the universe.
The universe is otherwise engaged.
Watching television or something.

Epilogue
The broom doesn't care how you got here.
It doesn't care whose fault it is.
It doesn't care if you feel ready.
It only cares
about the next stroke.
So:
Pick up the broom.
Not because it's easy.
But because you deserve a clean floor.

P.S.: The broom is waiting.
The floor, as ever, remains unimpressed.