The main difference between authentic self-help books and patchworked ones is in the authors. Authors who don’t practice what they preach speak empty words. They leave no marks on their audience’s memories. The example of books written by false teachers are plenty. They fluff up the market, but nobody remembers the titles or authors.
Authors who practice what they preach, their words stick. Words that stick result in follow-up actions, in retention of information, in happier environments.
Books written by people who practice what they preach pretty much create dents in the readers’ minds, consequently and occasionally dents in the book market as well. Books such as 4-Hour Week, or The Art of Not Giving a Fuck, Daring Greatly or the Ten Arguments to Delete Your Social Media Account. These books, when you read them, would wobble your step and blur your vision, forcing you to recalibrate your reality with the ideals and ideas lined in those books – for a while, at least.
But the Monk’s cleaning book is like a lot of books written by spiritualists: They begin by polishing the mundane and until it transcends to the heavens, embodying the St. Bernard motto: Qui laborat, cor levat ad Deum cum manibus. He who works raises his heart to God with his hands.
And that’s just the thing that has been missing in modern how-to books. Strictly secular how-to books shy from including the big pictures, the spiritual aspect of daily toils. In contrast to the secular, the biggest core value in books written by practicing teachers is the awareness of the whole, the priceless wisdom gained through practice, rather than from rote.
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When I loosened the screws on my daily practices, my house fell apart. Every week, I was doing too many things, and there was little room for meaning. I came home too exhausted to even fall asleep that I woke up sorrier the next day.
I knew that I was too distracted. That I needed to make more time for meditation. That the busier I was, the more I needed meditation. But I was too tired to face the spiritual flaying of hour-long meditations. I did what I could, stealing 5-15 minutes here and there, between my tasks. Enough to keep me functioning at the taught and tight level where I was, but nowhere near the deep sleep, meaningful serving, or restorative quality of proper practice.
So I thought, what if we negotiate this lack of meditation practice? What if there was a way that I could meditate while cleaning house. Like how I am meditating while running, watching my breath and body closely?
Ever since I found my particular brand of spirituality, Islamic but delivered in voices of the Buddhist masters, I've applied a litmus test to any new lesson or script. If the tip works well whether I'm running or writing, it's worth keeping. If the tip worked while I'm drunk or sober, it's a keeper. SO WHAT WRONG COULD HAPPEN FROM TAKING CLEANING TIPS FROM A MONK?
Now, in the traditions of Goenka-ji’s Vipassana courses, it is not advised to attend a meditation course if you’re going through a rough patch in your life. Similarly, you should not go on a physically strenuous endeavor if you’re still recovering from dehydration or the bends.
I was reminded of this the hard way. I was reminded that you should also not start reading a cleaning book by a monk if you’re too tired to apply their lessons. Because monks speak true, write truer, and scathe deep if you balk against their command.
Instead of finding the drive to clean, I bruised. My ego felt crushed and the house became overwhelming. Instead of cleaning, I rebelled and littered. Piles of dishes and laundry grew. I slept in filth, and refused to use a toothbrush.
I should have waited for a time when I had slept enough, was feeling hugged and loved enough, to read the book.
***
Eventually, that time came.
I was there, in that safe and fed place where I was able to attend the words in this book. And daily transcendence came closer within reach. There’s the mopping and sweeping, the clearing of dishes and living spaces, the making up of bed at the crack of dawn, and the prayers and meditations done in a well-made room. Simple, reachable, applicable paths of enlightenment.
Having them come from a priest, from someone who practices his cleaning duties with as form of worship, the words become law. His dishes and toilets embody pathways to God. His wakeful moments filled with reverence, and his sleep in service of his vessel. The vessel by which he would reach عرش الرحمن, the Throne of God.
And because his words were true, my house has been neat for more than a week. Because his words were true, I have been picking up more often than before. I have been living in a place more respectable than the sty I’d been dwelling in the past six months.
It’s still too soon to know whether my spirit and mind has improved since I began wiping the surfaces, but at least I’m not paralysed with self-loathing. And every time I clean, the veil is lifted slightly and my heart expands a bit. Every morning I wake up to a clean living room, I'm reminded that every day is a gift. That every act of self-care is a gentle and certain blessing. That my blessings are abundant. That I am worthy enough.