I go home and stay there. I wash and scrub up each day, and

In the quiet afterward of applause, when torches gutter and the streets grow sensible again, a man may whisper a creed to keep his heart from swelling beyond its house. So speaks Bill Murray: “I go home and stay there. I wash and scrub up each day, and that’s it. One month I actually grew a moustache, just so I could say that I’d done something.” Hear the humor shaped like a shepherd’s staff—light in hand, firm in purpose. The jest points toward a discipline: retreat from spectacle, return to the ordinary, polish the small hinges on which a life actually turns.

The ancients taught that greatness without grounding becomes wind—loud, everywhere, and unable to carry weight. To go home and stay is to choose the hearth over the arena, to prefer one faithful room to ten thousand fleeting cheers. There is wisdom in wash and scrub, the liturgy of cleanliness; it marks time with humility and keeps the body a fit companion for the soul. Each day repeats the vow. That’s it—a phrase of defiance against the tyranny of endless doing, a gate shut against the wolves of frenzy.

Yet there is mischief at the edge of the saying: “One month I grew a moustache, just to say I had done something.” This is the smile of a pilgrim who knows how ambition disguises itself. He chooses a trivial transformation, a tuft of hair, to mock the crown we try to place on novelty. The joke is a mirror: see how desperate we are to tally accomplishments, to prove worth by motion. The moustache becomes a parable—sometimes our striving is only decoration, and the soul needs less varnish and more stillness.

Consider Brother Lawrence, a humble cook in a seventeenth-century monastery, who spoke of “practicing the Presence” while scouring pots. He had no banners, only a broom; no campaigns, only kitchens. Yet by turning wash and scrub into prayer, he founded a kingdom in a scullery. Pilgrims crossed countries to ask how peace could dwell in the clang of pans. He replied: do the small things with great love, and you will never be far from God. Thus the monk and the comedian share a secret: sanctify the ordinary, and the ordinary will save you.

Or take a tale from our own streets. A woman named Alma worked the night shift at a hospital laundry. She kept a notebook in her pocket, recording three graces per shift: a newborn’s cry, a nurse’s weary joke, the steam’s baptism rising from linen. “I go home and stay,” she told her friends, “because home is where my eyes learn to be kind again.” She did not chase grand resumes; she kept the ward warm by returning clean sheets and a softer voice. Years spun by; when Alma retired, the hospital chapel filled beyond standing. The city had been held together by a quiet woman who had done something every day no headline would name.

What, then, does the saying teach? First, that stability is an art: the art of returning. Second, that the body’s routines—wash, scrub, rest, bread—are anchors against the riptide of vanity. Third, that novelty is not a savior; a moustache may amuse, but it cannot replace a cultivated soul. Finally, that the measurement of a day is not its fireworks but its faithfulness: whom did you attend, what small corner did you set in order, which promise did you keep?

Let the counsel be simple and durable. Keep a rule of each day: one act of maintenance (mend, clean, file), one act of mercy (call, cook, forgive), one act of meaning (read, pray, craft). Guard the threshold—finish work, go home, and truly stay: put the device to sleep, light a candle, speak unhurriedly with those who share your roof or your silence. Allow modest play—your own “grew a moustache”—but name it play, not purpose. Track not achievements but attendances: how often you showed up for your life.

So pass this to the young: the world will sell you arenas; buy a table. The world will thunder “More!”; answer “That’s it,” and mean “That’s enough.” Polish the day until it shines with plain duty, and let your laughter season the work. In time you will discover what Brother Lawrence and Bill Murray, each in his cloak, already know: that the road to a large, lighted life runs through the narrow gate of the ordinary, and the ordinary—kept with care—will be glory enough.