When I was a little girl, if I had been very, very good my mother would reward me by letting me polish the silver. I realize that for most children this wouldn't be much of an incentive, but I loved polishing things, making them shine. I clearly remember standing on a stool, scrubbing the bathroom sink with an old tattered washcloth for hours. When I was done, I'd carefully arrange the washcloth in the sink, covering as much of it as I could, then make my mother come in to watch me whisk the cloth away with a flourish for the grand reveal. She was kind enough to ooooh and ahhhhh appropriately.
These days, I still love to scrub and polish. I've been known to spend an hour cleaning a door, or an entire day wiping down the kitchen. It's the instant gratification of it all, I suppose. I move deliberately across the surface, smudges in front of me, sparkle behind. I can let my thoughts wander, exploring ways to save the world. Eventually, they wander away completely, leaving my mind as clean and empty as the surface in my wake.
Here's the mystery of it all; even though I have a passion for polishing, you can't tell by looking at my house.