The other day, I washed my wooden floors. I probably do this twice a month. The oak floors where I live are original to the building. They have a wonderful honey color and they make my place feel light and open.

I love my floor; with all its knots and changes in grain and imperfections. Oddly enough, I probably appreciate it the most when I am cleaning it. And I seem to have am almost automatic routine for this.

First, I will sweep my floors; front of the house to back, living room to dining room and kitchen. The job becomes more complex as I work my way towards the back door. I’ll drag my one high-backed chair and magazine rack onto my living room’s area rug until my broom has pushed dust I discovered under the sofa onto a waiting dust pan. I will place my office waste basket on the desk and shoes from my bedroom closet floor on window sills until I have swept those rooms. Then I’ll sweep the hallway.

I will mix up a bucket of Murphy’s Soap with warm water then, using my mop tagged with a W for wood floors, I’ll mop the front of the house and hallway. Once dry, I’ll return my big chair and magazine rack to their regular spots and line up my counter stools, from the dining room, into the hallway. I will move my dining room chairs around the dining room as I’ll sweep and mop the room, one section at a time.

Where does so much dirt come from?  I will marvel at how full my dust pan gets before emptying it and shake my head at how my bucket of water has turned from clear to smoky to gray as I mop from front to back of the house.

When I first moved in, after the building had been rehabbed, it seemed the place was full of construction dust. I washed the floor on my hands and knees, probably nine times, rubbing a soft cloth over the surface, until I was able to walk around barefoot without feeling grit on my soles.

When I lived in my first apartment, I remember washing the kitchen floor on my hands and knees.  I’d look at my reflection in a bucket of water and notice how the circular fluorescent on the kitchen ceiling would appear like a halo behind my head. I was so proud of cleaning MY floor. Few things, it seems, gave me as much pride of ownership as washing my floor.

I had to think about this.

There are so many associations I have, that WE have as a culture, with cleaning the floor. It’s a common ritual at the end of a workday.  Factories, industrial kitchens, the aisles of movie theaters and grocery stores are all swept before shift changes. Sailors are ordered to swab the deck as part of their duties. Sweeping the floor indicates that what has taken place in an area has been completed.  Something is now DONE.

We have associations likening sweeping to some form of dominance. Baseball teams sweep a series when they beat their opponent in consecutive games. Political parties sweep elections when their numbers constitute a voting bloc.

I can remember watching old movies and cartoons as a child where the woman of the house or cottage obviously spent a good part of her day sweeping dust and dirt over the threshold of her front door, back outside. It seemed like a never ending task, keeping the outside OUTSIDE and somehow maintaining the sanctity of the home.

I realized that, as an adult, I may have taken this idea even further. I will usually take off my shoes and often ask that guests take off their shoes when stepping inside. It’s not exactly as if I think of my home as my temple, but I do like to feel that there’s a real separation between my outer life and my inner life. If I’m outside, I feel like I have to be a little on guard. I will feel that I need to protect myself. When I am inside, in my home, I like to drop my guard.

Cleaning my floor gives me a sense of pride in my home. It’s a gesture of claiming the ground that I walk on as I carry out daily activities. But more than that, being able to walk barefoot in my house gives me the feeling that I am in a protected space.

Having a well-swept and clean floor makes me feel that my footsteps are safe – and that’s no small thing.