Ironing - May 17 2023

 

Ironing

May 17 2023

There is no need to iron things.

Not with permanent press

space age synthetics.

And as for the rest

I can live with wrinkles.

But ironing

is a contemplative art.

The iron centres me,

passing

smoothly back and forth

with easy regularity,

a metronome

pendulum

rocking chair.

My eyes glaze over,

arm is on its own.

And the narrow focus

on a pleat/collar/cuff

is like a trenchant Zen koan,

a noticing

distilled.

Walled off

in my my cozy laundry room,

the door firmly closed

and dryer rumbling warmly,

mellow jazz

playing softly just for me.

A lovely interregnum,

detached

from the deadlines and pressures

and diurnal cares.

The sizzle of steam.

That burnt cotton smell.

The solid heft

of the iron in my hand.

And the long tapered board

with its smooth silver fabric.

Encircled

at eye level

by freshly ironed shirts,

like prayer flags

on a mountaintop.

A task

that has a beginning

and definite end,

a result

you can see, touch, measure.

Not numbers, in cyberspace,

or more words

than have already been said,

just crisply ironed shirts

ready

to go out into the world.

But still, never truly done.

Because they will be laundry again,

and ironing day

will come back around.

Which reminds me of the cycle of life;

if suggesting such a thing

isn't too presumptive.

The creative destruction

of life after death;

how the dying make way

for their descendants.

And how, down generations

we repeat our mistakes

over and over again

   —  the audacity of youth,

starting fresh

but sure they know better.

Repetition

is a kind of meditation.

The mantra

you know by heart

that anchors you,

the familiar routine

you find so comforting.

A way

to regain your bearings

in a turbulent world.

Like laundry day.

So while there's need to iron things

I do it anyway.