The Laundress

I know its old fashioned but in my mind it is sublimely satisfying to hang clothes to dry. The snap of the crisp clean sheet that smells faintly of detergent and bleach, as you shake it before fold, assures that the wrinkles are out. The solitary chore that seems less like work and more of a pleasure, simple though it may be, is a chance for me to unwind, to think, and to breathe. The quiet approval of nature soothes my anxieties. It is a meditation in practice.

I am aware that environmentally, at this point (as I retrieve the clothespin from my mouth or from the row I have pinned on my shirt) that I am godly. Upturned corners and the securing of. Linens meet my clothes pins in smooth fluid lines of sizes and colors.

The sheets and blankets come first. The blankets, heavy and awkard, I may have to throw over the line and pull straight. The line sags a little. The sheets come next. And then the towels, colorful, soft and cool are hung in amiable order. All the small things next. I step back, draw a breath and breathe contentment.

The next load should be done, as I walk towards the house I can hear and feel the steady rhythm of the washer as it spins the load out. My basket empty, I climb the steps and head in to the cool dark house. Leaning over the washer I breathe deep the cool fresh smell of clothes as I reach in and begin pulling the clothes out and depositing them in the basket.

These are darks. Jeans, t-shirts, dresses, and undergarments come willfully into my arms in cool heavy entanglements. I shoulder up the basket, slight adjustment and its sits comfortably at a slight cant on my hip.

The dark clothes are heavier and cooler, in pleasant contrast to the sun's light. When I am at the line, my whole minds thoughts and responsibilities are occupied with this simple task. Sort, Shake, and Hang. I surrender to the uniform task, of ordering, shaking, and hanging. The shadows are growing longer and the blankets and sheets are flapping, twisting and flirting with the breeze. In another moment, I while switching lines indulge in the guilty pleasure of ducking beneath the clean laundry and cooling my face.

These moments hang lovely in my memories as moments of rest. I have always enjoyed hanging the clothes on laundry days, It is comforting and I feel blessed. All summer we hang clothes on the line.

I love the line dried towels. If you don't use fabric softener, they come off with this little bit of sun and wind added rough. That, to me is just incredibly satisfying to dry off with. Line dried clothes also have this little bit of a starched feeling. The lines are cleaner. The wrinkles are non existent and there is no left over griminess from the wear or the wash. A bit stiff at first,they soon conform to your shape and comfort upon wear.

Therefore, out of all the mundanes in life, this is one that I find more enjoyable and satisfying than others. It's odd because, I do other things that are far more meaningful and fullfilling, and hold far greater values. I draw, and I write. I paint in abstract with oils.I study Hebrew and child development. I dabble in interior decorating and clothing design. I keep up with world affairs and find nirvana in music. I laugh, I love, I dance. I have enlightened people to the love of skinny dipping under the light of a full moon.

These things are all consistent with the joys in my life. Some of them, though can't be described as fullfilling. My poetry , for example, is much more than that. The thought and love and knowledge, years of skill level required all add into something that somehow means more than that. Paticularly, the love aspect. Years of thought are required, sometimes, to write that perfect line. I once spent four solid hours on a four line poem.

Angel feathers and baby blue

Bright sky hope in toddling steps

A whispered air brushed kiss

Teasing sparkle and oceans depths

What I felt upon completion was something greater than accomplishment, the labors were greater than that. It is similiar with drawing or creating a piece of art, that starting point being the first hurdle.It may not be the last, but sometimes it certainly seems more overwhelming. I love painting, I love writing. But better, I love the result.