It's funny what you miss when you leave home.

Today I did something I never thought I'd actually want to do. I swept the courtyard outside. I still remember the first time my dad asked me to do it. I thought he was crazy. "Why should I sweep outside?" I remember asking, "There's supposed to be dirt outside!" I don't remember what his answer was, but I do remember that he made me do it anyway. And I never really understood why, but I continued to sweep it when people were coming over. I usually do as little work as possible, so mostly I just did the part between the walkway and the door. Today, I swept the whole courtyard for the first time in heaven knows how long. Somehow, it was comforting, the straw of the broom going "whisk, whisk, whisk" against the old bricks that used to be red-orange and that the sun has bleached and the sand has scoured to a pink-brown. I love that courtyard. Something about it is home, especially when the bricks are warm under my bare feet in the sun, when a cool breeze blows through my hair and the sunshine fills everything up to the brim and then bubbles over in a golden waterfall. I know the way the air smells in the spring now, and the way it will smell in the summer, and the fall, and the winter, and back again. I know the way the sun and the wind and the sky will play out their dance and the way the mountains will always, always be there if I care to look around the white-bricked corner of the garage. So I swept it out, the whole thing, top to bottom and side to side. And I enjoyed it. Because as stupid as it is, as frustrating and pointless and difficult and impermanent as I've always found it, it was something I missed doing. There's something special about sweeping away all the dirt and detritus that collects at the corners, against the house. There may be dirt outside, but there's no reason it should all be in my courtyard. I swept away all the dead leaves, old feathers, and dead bugs that had blown in, all the dirt that had turned into black piles around the edges of the old pink-brown bricks. It was something worth doing. Because it's spring, and that means fall is gone, and winter, and all the dead things are replaced by new ones. After all, what's the point of a leaf rotting on brick where nothing grows? It's warm outside now, enough to eat out in the front in the shade, with a breeze blowing by, cool and gentle. And now the courtyard's ready for it. And it's because I made it so, cleaned out all the old things to make room for new life, for spring and for family and friends and visitors. I did something they've done for generations before me, something they'll do for generations after me. And dead leaves will blow back in, and dirt will collect in the corners, and bugs will crawl in and die. And it'll all be undone. But then I can clean it all out again and have a little more space for life to live. And maybe that's the point.