I’m in the kitchen, tidying up when my arm knocks a glass bottle onto the floor and shatters it. Broken glass everywhere: large shards, tiny bits the size of a star’s twinkle and the rest like magic dust. Small pools of water; the bottle had been less than half full.
This has happened before: I would swear, get grumpy, sometimes simmer in rage before cleaning the mess up. Disgruntled, unhappy, cursing my clumsiness.
Today I simply grab a broom, a few kitchen towels, some newspaper to wrap the broken glass, and get started. Everything is cleaned in no time at all. In fact, the very act of picking or sweeping up the glass and hunting down any stray bits is meditative. My breath slows, steadies. I was already cleaning up the kitchen, was I not? This is but more of the same. More practice.
When I am done, the kitchen is clean. I make a note to buy a new glass bottle, maybe two. A spare is always nice. I smile as I leave my kitchen.