How sweeping the floor teaches us the art of letting go
The Daily Shedding
I like sweeping the floor every day because it reminds me of how much dead we shed all day long. By “we” I mean all of us: dogs, plants, insects, reptiles, humans… all of us shedding dead all day long.
I have to sweep my floor twice a day actually to keep up with all the shedded dead. Fur from the dogs. Skin cells from my body. Dried leaves from the plants. Dust that’s just… the residue of everything living and dying in small increments all around me.
And doing so never ceases to remind me to see the falling away of aspects of life – relationships, objects, roles, identities, parts of ourselves – as a natural intrinsic part of it all.
Sweeping the floor sinks the lesson in humbly for me.
What We Collect Instead of Sweep
I often think of how ridiculous it would be to hoard all of the fragments of life swept off my floor in some drawer. Can you imagine? Saving every piece of dust, every strand of fur, every dead skin cell in labeled containers. “Summer 2023 shedding.” “That difficult week in March.” “The day I finally said what I needed to say.”
And yet in a way that is what we do with so many other fragments of our lives.
We hold onto relationships that have already ended. We carry identities that no longer fit. We cling to versions of ourselves that we’ve already outgrown, storing them away in drawers we won’t open but can’t seem to empty either.
We accumulate the dead parts – the expired beliefs, the old wounds, the roles we’ve shed but still drag around like phantom limbs.
One of the most unique parts of being human is our ability to hang on, remember, collect and record experiences and tuck them away in our many secret drawers. We’re hoarders by nature. Collectors of moments, memories, meanings. And there’s beauty in that – in our capacity to remember, to honor what was, to let the past inform who we’re becoming.
But there’s also a practice in knowing what to sweep away.
The Practice of a Lifetime
The skill to choose which aspects to hold onto, and which to truly shed, sweep and give back – now that, for me, is the practice of a lifetime.
Because not everything is meant to be kept. Not every relationship that ends needs to be preserved in its entirety. Not every version of ourselves deserves a permanent place in our internal museum. Some things are meant to be swept up and returned. Composted. Released back into the cycle.
The dogs don’t mourn their shed fur. The plants don’t grieve their fallen leaves. The lizard doesn’t try to reattach the skin it’s outgrown. They shed naturally, continuously, without drama or attachment. It’s just what happens when you’re alive and changing.
And maybe we could learn something from that. From the humble daily practice of sweeping. Of noticing what’s ready to fall away. Of letting the dead parts actually leave instead of storing them in drawers we pretend aren’t heavy.
Twice a Day
Taking maintenance and care, every day, patiently sweeping, twice a day.
This is the work. Not the big dramatic purges where we throw everything out and start fresh. But the daily practice of noticing what’s accumulated. What’s ready to be released. What no longer serves the version of us that’s still growing, still shedding, still becoming.
Sweeping the floor is such a simple thing. And yet it teaches me over and over: shedding is natural. Letting go is necessary. Holding onto everything is exhausting.
So I sweep. Twice a day. And each time I do, I ask myself: what else am I carrying that’s already dead? What fragments am I storing in secret drawers that are ready to be swept away? What parts of my life are asking to be composted, returned, released back into the cycle so something new can grow?
The floor gets dirty again by evening. The shedding never stops. And somehow that’s comforting. It means I’m still here, still moving through life, still changing enough to have something to let go of.
Sweep. Release. Begin again. That’s the practice.
Loving you always!
Meghan