Love the Floor

I was a young girl. Probably about ten or eleven years old. I had spent the weekend with my father. I do not remember the details of this particular visit, but what I do remember is that my mother was hospitalized so it was a friend of hers who was coming to get me and take me to see my mother in the hospital. Well before my mother’s friend arrived, my father asked me to make sure I returned the room that I had been staying in to a clean state. I began to pack my things in anticipation of hearing the horn of the car from my mother’s friend, as there were no cell phones then, and I had to estimate the time of arrival and listen out for the horn of the car. In my rushing, excitement and anticipation for that horn. I quickly made an attempt to clean the room. 

My father comes into the room and begins to point things out to me that were not cleaned properly. Although I didn’t dare protest, my mind and heart was anticipating the sound of that horn. The only task left was to sweep the floor. As I got the broom and began sweeping the floor, I realized that the time for the arrival of my mom’s friend was fast approaching. So I quickly, and with much attitude began to sweep. My father then stopped me. “No,” he said. “You cannot treat my floor like that.” I stopped for a moment, but his words did not penetrate me. I began to sweep again. “Stop it,” he said. Again he tells me that I cannot treat the floor that way. I start thinking that possibly he doesn’t like the speed in which I am moving, and if I sweep extra slow, maybe he will let me get out of there. So I began to sweep again, very slowly this time. Again he stops me and this time I burst into tears because I hear the sound of the horn. I finished crying. I look at him and I tell him that I have to leave. He then tells me that I am not going anywhere until that floor is swept. He then starts to explain to me how he would not give me permission to come to his home and abuse it, by using things without care. He told me that I had to love the floor. At this point I am thinking that my father is crazy and I am never going to leave his house. As we stood there, me holding the broom but not permitted to use it, he began to explain that when I arrived at his home, I arrived in a room that was clean. I arrived in a room that had a clean floor, a floor that had been cared for. I used that floor. I slept on it. I walked on it, and while it was in my care, it accumulated dust and dirt, and it was my responsibility to take care of that with the right spirit. It took me about an hour before I was able to hear his words, understand his lesson, love the floor, and sweep the floor.

My father planted a seed in my spirit that day. He was teaching me the importance of taking care of the things that take care of you. He was showing me that nothing should be taken for granted or handled carelessly, and that tempo has nothing to do with substance. He taught me that the only way to get to the thing I am in anticipation of is to let it go, and complete the thing that is in front of me. It took awhile for the lessons of that day to bloom into my understanding.

There are times in my life, when I am moving in haste or rushing through things just trying to get tasks done. There are times I move out of obligation and not care. I have learned to stop myself, and correct myself. Every time I have applied this lesson to my life, and moved from a place of compassion and understanding, I have been blessed abundantly. This lesson is part of the foundation of my understanding of Ifa and my responsibility as a priestess, a gift given to me at such a young age by my father. May I always remember to love the floor. May my father’s spirit be elevated and blessed each time I remember.Ase