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I came home. A long day. The door closed behind me. The sound was a final thing. The day was over. I looked at the desk. The papers were a mess. The books were piled high. The pens were scattered. A small chaos. It was not an anger. It was just there. A reflection of the day.

I began to work. To clean. I picked up a pen. It was a good pen. Black ink. I put it in a cup. A small order. The first one. Then another pen. Another. The papers were stacked. The books were lined up. The surface of the desk began to appear. It was a good feeling. To make sense of the small things.

The dust was gone. The surface was clear. There was nothing left to do. The sun came in through the window. It made a stripe of light on the clean wood. There was nothing left to think about. Just the clean wood. The empty space. My mind got quiet too. It was a good feeling. A gentle feeling.

It is a kind of stillness. Not a waiting. Not an emptiness. Peace. A small, simple peace that comes from a clean desk. From the order I made.