Dust.

I hate to dust. It just seems pointless. And tedious. Moving things, to dust under them, is just irritating. But one day, when I was staring at the dust sitting on my bookshelf, feeling tired just looking at it, I saw my daughter’s hand print and a little drawing she had made in it. I don’t even remember what the drawing was, all I remember is thinking…there is beauty even in dust.

And then one day I looked down my hallway, as the morning sun was streaming through the window, and saw the dust particles floating so peacefully through the air, and again it hit me, dust can be beautiful.

I don’t even know what the heck dust is, really. Dead skin, animal dander, dirt? Let me pause here and go look it up.

According to http://www.thefreedictionary.com/dust  dust is, I quote:

1. Fine, dry particles of matter.

2. A cloud of fine, dry particles.

3. Particles of matter regarded as the result of disintegration: fabric that had fallen to dust over the centuries.

4.

a. Earth, especially when regarded as the substance of the grave: “ashes to ashes, dust to dust” (Book of Common Prayer).

b. The surface of the ground.

5. A debased or despised condition.

6. Something of no worth.

7. Chiefly British Rubbish readied for disposal.

8. Confusion; agitation; commotion: won’t go back in until the dust settles.

I guess about 70-80 percent of dust is dead skin, from the little bit I’ve found while reading up on it (and no, I never thought I’d be researching dust at 9:07pm, on July 20, 2014).