Dust bunnies are odd things. They lurk in nooks and crannies, swirling under the beds and in the corners behind the entertainment center. As they toss and tumble about, they seem to grow in density and fervor, almost as if infused with a mind or life of their own.
I am not a tall person. When I clean, I have to stand on step ladders and swipe at cobwebs and dusty regions with long fuzz busters, dodging bits and pieces as they drift down onto me. It is not a pleasant task.
My most recent cleaning episode was sparked by the holidays. We had not opened the various bins of green and red; nothing had been draped across the fireplace or along the banisters of the staircase. In order to decorate, I felt I had to tackle the dust bunnies of our busy lives and prepare my decorating pallet. Once I took down the curtains, washed and ironed them all, I then could see the streaks on the windows. So, I was resentfully rubbing away the grime when I spotted the fox.
She hunts the back yard often, a streak of fiery orange atop delicate black legs. Her lovely brushy tail is enormous. She was sitting on the low garden wall watching me. A furry bundle, a dead cottontail, lay at her feet and her perfect jaw was dropped into a wide grin. She appeared to be laughing at me.
Here was an incredibly beautiful wild fox thing with her own bunny–food to nourish the next Spring kits growing inside her womb. Then, she gracefully picked up her banquet and trotted up the snowy hill then disappeared under the aspens.
My resentment at our grimy dust bunnies suddenly snapped into perspective and I felt the blessing of peaceful gratitude for my home fill my heart. Life was suddenly called into sharper focus by a visiting fox.