Ablutions

Ablutions: The act of washing oneself, often used to refer to the ceremonial washing of the self, from the Latin "ab" and "luere", away and wash. Formerly used in alchemy to denote the process of purification using liquid and evolved to denote the washing of the body. Latterly commandeered by the British army to indicate the building housing washing and toilet facilities.

My Connection: I was seldom told to brush my teeth as a child, and rarer still were entreaties to wash my face, or scrub my neck. Was I a grimy little tyke? Well, often, yes. But show me the pristine child at late afternoon and I will show you the dull day. No, I was not told to brush my teeth or wash my face. I was told to go and do my ablutions. I wonder, now, where this came from. My own parents were of that generation born shortly after the second world war, and both their fathers had served in the British military. Mercifully, both had come back alive. Perhaps my parents too grew up with this, among many, little bit of overspill from military life. I shall have to ask them next time I see them if they performed ablutions as a child as I did. And as my children do. For as the evening approaches each day, I have never called upon them to wash up for bedtime or to visit the bathroom before night night cuddles. No, I stand before them and like the matronly figure bedtime demands of me, I call "Ablutions! Ablutions please babies!" After they are abed, and I am done for the day, I in turn announce to my partner that I am "going to do my ablutions now", and off I trot to slough away the day, my nightly ceremony, as simple as it is, of skin under running water, preparing to meet the night cleansed of the day just done.

Ablutions

Across the coarse and calloused skin

That toiled today, lose or win;

Across this dry, industrious heat,

The energy that surged to meet

The ceaseless needs of pushing on

Even when the will was gone;

Across the creases grimed with dirt,

Some gained in fun, some in hurt;

Across the tendon, across muscle,

Tired from the daily hustle,

The water flows and passes thus,

And without ego, pomp or fuss

It cools and soothes and speaks to me

And tells me, now, to let it be,

To let it go, what has now passed

To turn my mind from futures cast

In runes and tea leaves, in fearful guessing,

To feel instead this moment’s blessing.