The Value of Things

A couple of days ago I suffered an attack of cleanitis. Usually I am able to head off these occasional episodes, using a variety of cures and distractions. Nothing I tried helped. I found myself in the middle of a fullblown episode, broom in hand, sweeping my carpet. It was humiliating.
It was triggered by a piece of trash that, like an uninvited guest, lay idly on my faux Morrocan carpet. The normal state of my floor is what I like to refer to as 'au naturale'. If I have dirt, pine needles, bits of debris, oogies and woogies on the floor, I like to think that it is a sign of my openness to natural processes, embracing change, if you will. Others might label it pigsty housekeeping, but I am reluctant to judge my attitude of 'welcoming diversity' in such a harsh manner.
Now, I have to confess that I am afflicted with a particular mental flaw. I have worked diligently to eradicate this failure of character from my inventory. I have failed so far. I like my floor swept. I admit it. There, I said it. And I can go long on this one, avoiding the inevitable, whiteknuckling my way through the cravings, standing firmly by my ideals, but every so often, I fail miserably.
The leaf that lay on my floor was the trigger. I found myself defenseless. The rigors of my training, no help. Years of dedication to my cause evaporated like vulnerable dew drops to a hot desert sun. I gave myself, willingly, to my compulsion. Perhaps it was deviously placed there by the Temptor himself, the same that lured Eve with his sly and golden tongue, perhaps it was just the vagaries of random chance that the leaf, that beautiful fallen symbol of summer passing, landed there to vex and hex me. And hexed I was. The spell of that leaf had me entranced. It opened a world of reflection, of insight, a glimpse into the anguished horror of beauty. Yes, beauty is just as hard to bear as depravity. Beauty can, by revealing itself, make you want to blind your eyes, blank your mind. If you are able to gaze at it, it is not real beauty. Real beauty shatters the self, scatters defenses, brings tears and waves of shivers as it touches every cell in the body. Worse yet, it can make you write poetry.
That leaf is my prized possession. All else that I own, my vast estates, my dumptrucks of emeralds and rubies, my golden palaces, worthless in comparison. I am a million times wealthier with that leaf, lying there on my carpet, by the door. A simple leaf.
And that was how I fell from grace. I failed to do nothing. I, the one that admonishes you, dear reader, to practice the sublime art, did do. I coveted. I cleaned. I celebrated. I reflected. I sinned, I admit. I did all that, to avoid the pain of beauty.
It lies there, where I so carefully replaced it after my 'episode', a reminder to my failure, my cowardice, my treason against this gift from God. I am not worthy. I am a cracked vessel. A shard at best. I have left that leaf there to remind myself that I am a hypocrite. I pretend to seek beauty, I write about it, speak eloquently even, but in reality, I am a hollow man, a despicable "do-er".
Gentle Reader, take this fall of mine to heart. Let me be the example of what not to do, when given the chance to see the world as it really is, open your heart to it, brace yourself for the jolt of actuality. Don't do as I did. Do not be distracted by useless do-ing. Practice the art faithfully and lead the way for me.
I will remain your humble servant;
Roberto Kiam