Laundry

I have a confession to make: I actually like doing laundry. I don't like it above other things, and there are a vast number of things that I would rather be doing, but there is something deeply enjoyable about the task of cleaning my family's clothes, piling them high into a clean white plastic basket, and folding them, carefully, methodically, quietly.

I like the texture of the fabrics, the fresh smell of still-warm tumble-dried shirts, the crisp stiffness of tiny line-dried dresses. I spread them each out, one by one, on our kitchen table, smoothing out the fine creases, folding them with the precision of an experienced hand. I rejoice in stacking up the folded shirts and balled socks, perfect—if only for a moment. And the washer hums its grumbly mumbly tune in the laundry room next to the kitchen.

I don't do much thinking when I'm folding, which is rare since I think (and worry) while doing most things (working, eating, showering, trying to fall asleep...). The task of folding absorbs me completely, and by practicing this very domestic task, I am miraculously taken away from my quotidian worries. I am left simply to feel and to touch and to love.