People say the domestic life is narrow and stultifying, a prison for the intellect. Feminists have long made this claim. I guess you could say that’s true, but only if you think human history is boring, the laws of nature are boring, love is boring, birth is boring, children are boring, personality is boring, the mind is boring, morality is boring, death is boring, male and female are boring, sex is boring, illness is boring, kisses are boring, prayers are boring, literature is boring, philosophy is boring, poetry is boring, God is boring, the seasons are boring, music is boring, trees are boring, sunlight is boring, the stars are boring, snow is boring, dew is boring. If all this is true, the home is not what it appears: a fount of ideas and truths, a university and a museum, a laboratory for the curious, a gallery of all that is human. If the home is boring, life itself is a desert.  

Kristor writes about the foregoing entry:

With respect to dust, I am with Democritus. If anything made of dust is to be alive to its world, then in some way the dust of which it is made must do likewise. Not in the same way, of course; things are alike, but not wholly alike, or they wouldn’t be discrete.

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DUST is pervasive. Wherever you are, dust is silently gathering, a fleck of everything, fragments of nothing, the particulate manifestation of the truth that all things are disintegrating. Ordinary household dust is rarely considered a subject worthy of consideration. We live in a superficial world. Perhaps we’re secretly dumbfounded by some of the most commonplace things. We just don’t know what to make of them. We’re holding out for explanations that never appear. One of the most interesting things about dust is its imperviousness to scientific progress. The scientist in his lab may have the illusion of progress. The duster knows that nature only progresses so much. The world is never cured of dust and no human habitat is without it. The earliest materialist philosophers may have been sent on their first chain of speculations by the visible clouds of tiny particles they observed while sitting in a room. From there, they may have leapt with intuitive brilliance – before there were any microscopes to confirm their suspicions – to the conclusion that all things are particulate. Our senses deceive us, said Democritus, the early Greek philosopher who logically inferred the presence of infinitesimal particles, or atoms, in all matter. “By convention, sweet is sweet, bitter is bitter, hot is hot, cold is cold, color is color; but in truth there are only atoms and the void.” Even thought is atomistic. Our bodies are composed of thinking atoms. So Democritus thought. Perhaps…

  The Internet is a wild and untamed jungle, but it contains small gardens of peace and sanity, of order and delight. There are many homemaking blogs, but none excels that of Lydia Sherman, a woman who was raised in the Alaska outback and later became an American housewife. Don't be deceived by the homey crafts and Victorian posters displayed on Lydia's site. Here is a woman of universal wisdom and insight. She is typical of the seasoned woman of yesteryear who had already raised her children and whose sole purpose in life was to convey the essential truths to the young. These women served as ballast, keeping an entire culture from sinking. Tomorrow belongs to the Lydia Shermans. We will recapture the truths that never die.

A group of executives gathered for a meeting in the offices of a West Coast software company. The participants included one female vice president for marketing, beautifully coiffed and dressed in a silk suit. As soon as the meeting began, she took out her note pad and began writing. She appeared thoroughly engaged. From over her shoulder, another participant glimpsed at the words on her page. They did not appear relevant:          Pick up Elsie’s invitations        Dry cleaners        Party favors        Chicken cutlets        Dentist, 4 p.m.      The vice president was writing a mother’s shopping and errand list. According to a friend who related this incident, this woman was present in body, not in spirit. She was similar in function to those buxom carved figureheads on the prow of sailing vessels, leading the way through turbulent seas with beauty and an unvarying smile.

Dear Reader, Thank you for visiting, and welcome to this website. Domesticity is an ongoing state of war. I know it doesn't sound dangerous, but it is. Home is a jungle. It’s a hurricane at sea. It’s a beast in chains. Think of the dust that blows in from distant deserts and galaxies, settling on tables, floors, walls and papers. There's something reminiscent about each particle. Think of the broken pipes and the leaking roof. They crack their whips. Think of the wolf at the door. He huffs and he puffs. Think of the ambulance at the curb and the sympathy card in the mailbox. Home is the best place to die. Think of future generations. They sing their favorite tunes even now. Think of the minds of children. They'll discover new continents within four walls. "History has tongues," said Stephen Spender. The same might be said of the smallest child, in communion with past and future even when incapable of speech. Cleaning and cooking, dusting and weeding – this may seem very ordinary and un-dangerous. To me, it's filled with philosophical depths. The kitchen broom and the garden hoe are ancient tools of enlightenment. The scientist in his lab may have the illusion of progress. The sweeper knows this: Nature only changes so much.  Out of the very ephemera of home, the idea of eternity arises. The universe doesn’t knock at the front door; it enters the very cracks in the walls. We are hungry and there is a world…

Mike Berman, one of the perceptive commenters from Lawrence Auster’s View From the Right, writes about The Finest Occupations :

You bring up a subject here which has consumed me since I can remember. Coming from a poor family, one of my early memories was the marshals coming to our door to put us on the street and my promise to myself that I would never let this humiliation happen to me.

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