Washing clothes might not seem like a spiritual experience. I never thought of it as such either, until I had what can be described as an epiphany one day.
My husband and I had altered the course of our lives quite drastically in 1981 by selling most of our household goods, a three-bedroom, ranch-style house in the San Francisco Bay Area, and moving into an 8X40 25-year old trailer in Northern California. Our challenges included no running water, no electricity, a propane cooking stove with an oven that didn’t work, and a wood burning stove for heat. We had a thunder bucket for night use and a shovel with a roll of toilet paper on it for the daytime. Our son, in his red wagon, hauled seven gallons of spring water up a steep incline every morning. That's how he got his name, "Running Water".
We had wanted to get out of the rat race of city living. We’d hoped to experience our lives closer to Mother Earth and learn to integrate the philosophies of Native American culture and spirituality. I hadn’t realized what we’d done to ourselves until I approached the washing.
Steven had tugged an extra allotment of water up the hill. My husband had bought me a scrub board and two wash tubs. I’d purchased Fels Naphtha soap and a finger nail scrub brush.
Sitting on a milk crate after boiling half the water, I started to rub and slosh the white clothes across the glass ripples of the scrub board. My back screamed after a half hour. My arm muscles whimpered. I started to sob, “What have we done to ourselves? What have I done to me? My career? My independence?”
Self-pity turned to rage. My hands wrung the wash water out of the clothes with such force, they felt dry. Then I cried some more as I rinsed them.
Midway through the all day process, I poured the filthy wash water onto struggling tomato plants. The rinse water then became the wash water. Mentally thanking Steven for the extra haul, I squinted at the clear, crisp glints of reflected light as I poured the last gallons into the tub. It was like seeing stars in the daytime.
Resting my shoulders, I thanked the sun for keeping my muscles warm and easing their stress. Scrubbing away one stubborn T-shirt stain, I thanked the soap and the brush for helping.
A yellow finch flew so close overhead, I had to duck. Then, I opened my ears to the sounds around me and realized I was sitting in a very noisy clearing. I differentiated five kinds of birds and marveled at a vulture who swooped across the sky. The natural perfume of blossoms and needles intensified as the sun peaked in the sky.
Hanging clothes on the make-shift line that my husband had dubbed my solar dryer, I saw shirts and underwear as white as when I’d purchased them. Colored clothes were vibrant.
Instead of worrying if we were going to have the money to buy more when the kids outgrew these, I offered thanks that we had any at all. My judgment of the filthy water turned into an understanding of how much Earth we’d gathered in our clothes. I chuckled at that circular thought as I returned the last of it to the base of the zucchini plant.
That was almost 30 years ago. I don’t wash clothes by hand anymore, thank God. I still use a solar dryer in summer and give thanks for the abundance of a gas generator, electric washer, and all the clothes I hang on the line.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Morning Rituals
I’m a sleepyhead. I’ve been one since I was born. (My parents often said they were grateful for this habit, as they were ones too. Guess that makes it genetic.)
I love coming awake slowly, stretching and curling in the bed, tensing and relaxing muscles. Gradually becoming aware of how the sheets and blankets feel against my skin, how I’m wrapped around my pillows and my husband. All this is done before I open my eyes so I can test my sense of hearing next, then my sense of smell. The last things I do is open my eyes, especially if I’m trying to hold on to the remnants of a dream. Before my lids lift, I let myself float, allowing whatever loose thread there is to draw me into the fabric of my subconscious life.
When I can hold the full pattern, I scan for its meaning or application in my ‘awake’ life. I know something is there for me to see and ponder.
Then I’m ready to open my eyes.
Not all mornings, of course, are like this. I’m just describing my druthers.
My second best thing to do is wake up before the sun. There’s something about waking up in the hush of the morning, when the birds aren’t awake and no breeze disturbs the oaks and madrones and firs. This is the time when I think even Mother Earth is holding her breath.
Being awake and alone in this stillness creates for me a bond with all women, those from all cultures and eras, who made their way into the day before their families. I can envision us ripening the atmosphere of consciousness with prayer, perhaps a whiff of incense or sage.
This is the kind of morning where I want to wear a shawl across my shoulders as I walk outside. Just as I do on sleepyhead mornings, I keep my eyes closed as I stand in the early freshness. I use my senses to smell the air, listen for sounds, feel for a breeze, then open my eyes to an eastern sky beginning to brighten on the horizon. I wait for the shadows to explode across the landscape.
However I choose to begin my day, I remind myself, “It’s a new day” and try to hold that thought in my heart.
I love coming awake slowly, stretching and curling in the bed, tensing and relaxing muscles. Gradually becoming aware of how the sheets and blankets feel against my skin, how I’m wrapped around my pillows and my husband. All this is done before I open my eyes so I can test my sense of hearing next, then my sense of smell. The last things I do is open my eyes, especially if I’m trying to hold on to the remnants of a dream. Before my lids lift, I let myself float, allowing whatever loose thread there is to draw me into the fabric of my subconscious life.
When I can hold the full pattern, I scan for its meaning or application in my ‘awake’ life. I know something is there for me to see and ponder.
Then I’m ready to open my eyes.
Not all mornings, of course, are like this. I’m just describing my druthers.
My second best thing to do is wake up before the sun. There’s something about waking up in the hush of the morning, when the birds aren’t awake and no breeze disturbs the oaks and madrones and firs. This is the time when I think even Mother Earth is holding her breath.
Being awake and alone in this stillness creates for me a bond with all women, those from all cultures and eras, who made their way into the day before their families. I can envision us ripening the atmosphere of consciousness with prayer, perhaps a whiff of incense or sage.
This is the kind of morning where I want to wear a shawl across my shoulders as I walk outside. Just as I do on sleepyhead mornings, I keep my eyes closed as I stand in the early freshness. I use my senses to smell the air, listen for sounds, feel for a breeze, then open my eyes to an eastern sky beginning to brighten on the horizon. I wait for the shadows to explode across the landscape.
However I choose to begin my day, I remind myself, “It’s a new day” and try to hold that thought in my heart.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
The Problem with Sudoku
Admitting that I have a problem, I’ve been told, is the first step toward a solution. OK, well, I’ve a problem . . . with Sudoku.
Whenever I don’t know what to do with myself, I play Sudoku. Whenever there is something I don’t really want to do, yup, I play Sudoku. If I want to be honest, playing this numbers game is a method of occupying my mind to make me think I’m doing something.
I’ve managed, on occasion, to convince myself that I’m exercising my brain cells. I can get myself all excited around competing with myself too. The goal used to be to complete one. That’s not enough any more. Now, it’s about how fast I can get it done correctly.
I used to have a firm handle on this pastime. I only played those games that arrived once a week in the sales papers. If I couldn’t solve it the first time around, I had blank forms on which I could reconstruct the primary clues and circle them. Then I was limited to one puzzle a week unless an AARP or VIA magazine crossed the threshold. I was happy and content with this process. Sudoku was a treat.
Then some helpful soul presented me with a desk calendar so I could have one a day. Then two someones gifted me with books of these puzzles. The final breakdown of my will-power and control of this time-guzzling activity was caused by the gift of a hand-held, battery-operated Sudoku game. I was sunk. I now had the tools to play everyday and every hour of every day.
I suppose it wouldn’t be so bad if I could play with other people, then I could consider this a social activity. Instead I sit in the doctor’s office or stand in lines and play these games instead of participating in the world around me. They are interfering with my relationships and my ability to get things done. I remind myself of those who commute to work or jog with I-pods in their ears or kids playing video games.
I mean it took every ounce of my resolve to put down one of the game books today and write this piece. I’m definitely out of balance here.
What am I going to do?
Do I have to treat my gluttonous need of Sudoku as if I was overweight with this number game and put myself on a diet? Do I have to hide all the books and calendar pages on myself? Or make corresponding points for each level of game and limit the number I can play in a day? Is there such a thing as a Sudoku watcher?
Maybe I need to treat it like a tobacco addiction and provide other distractions for myself so I can become Sudoku-free? Deep breathing through the cravings for playing the game? Or force myself to do one Sudoku game after the other, until I get sick of them?
Do I become my own mother and only allow myself to play one game when I’ve accomplished one blog or edited one chapter or finished the washing?
Hmmm, that’s not a bad idea.
Whenever I don’t know what to do with myself, I play Sudoku. Whenever there is something I don’t really want to do, yup, I play Sudoku. If I want to be honest, playing this numbers game is a method of occupying my mind to make me think I’m doing something.
I’ve managed, on occasion, to convince myself that I’m exercising my brain cells. I can get myself all excited around competing with myself too. The goal used to be to complete one. That’s not enough any more. Now, it’s about how fast I can get it done correctly.
I used to have a firm handle on this pastime. I only played those games that arrived once a week in the sales papers. If I couldn’t solve it the first time around, I had blank forms on which I could reconstruct the primary clues and circle them. Then I was limited to one puzzle a week unless an AARP or VIA magazine crossed the threshold. I was happy and content with this process. Sudoku was a treat.
Then some helpful soul presented me with a desk calendar so I could have one a day. Then two someones gifted me with books of these puzzles. The final breakdown of my will-power and control of this time-guzzling activity was caused by the gift of a hand-held, battery-operated Sudoku game. I was sunk. I now had the tools to play everyday and every hour of every day.
I suppose it wouldn’t be so bad if I could play with other people, then I could consider this a social activity. Instead I sit in the doctor’s office or stand in lines and play these games instead of participating in the world around me. They are interfering with my relationships and my ability to get things done. I remind myself of those who commute to work or jog with I-pods in their ears or kids playing video games.
I mean it took every ounce of my resolve to put down one of the game books today and write this piece. I’m definitely out of balance here.
What am I going to do?
Do I have to treat my gluttonous need of Sudoku as if I was overweight with this number game and put myself on a diet? Do I have to hide all the books and calendar pages on myself? Or make corresponding points for each level of game and limit the number I can play in a day? Is there such a thing as a Sudoku watcher?
Maybe I need to treat it like a tobacco addiction and provide other distractions for myself so I can become Sudoku-free? Deep breathing through the cravings for playing the game? Or force myself to do one Sudoku game after the other, until I get sick of them?
Do I become my own mother and only allow myself to play one game when I’ve accomplished one blog or edited one chapter or finished the washing?
Hmmm, that’s not a bad idea.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Helping or Hindering?
A friend recently lamented about a project that was taking forever and had so many challenges and pitfalls, it seemed like it was never going to get done. My usual method of cheerful encouragement and suggestions was met with more descriptions of barriers or detours to accomplishing this task. I felt defeated in my attempt to be helpful and had to say, “Good luck!”, then I backed away.
Later in the day, I joined my husband for a second afternoon of eating watermelon and spitting seeds outside our RV while sitting in the Arizona desert. (Where else can you get ripe watermelon in January?) He remarked that our seeds from the previous day’s session were gone. I wondered if the birds had gotten them.
As we watched, first one, then another black ant headed toward our freshly deposited seeds. We tracked their burrow to a spot about 12 feet away. Now these were tiny ants! One watermelon seed was at least 10 time their weight!
“Can’t be the ants who took all the seeds,” I said.
“Must be,” he said.
As we kept track of their activities, we found individual ants tackling their chosen seed with such complete attention and vigor, I was tired. One ant got its seed stuck between two small rocks that must’ve seemed like boulders. After tugging and pulling and pushing, it stopped to climb to a higher elevation, then investigated the surrounding area in a circular path. Sure enough. In about five minutes, the ant had changed course and freed the seed so it could take off on a different angle toward home.
I saw another one with a similar problem, and I tried to help by removing the stones it was pushing its seed against. I scared the ant away. It must’ve seen my finger as some giant bolt from the sky. A threatening hand, rather than a benevolent one. That seed didn’t get moved again while I was watching. It and the rest of the seeds, however, were gone the next day.
There’s no way to know their feelings about the matter. I hypothesized they might’ve begun groaning by the third day of our eating ritual. I thought they might be saying, “Oh, no! Here come some more of those dratted seeds. Won’t we ever get a break? How can we get anymore down our hole?”
My husband wondered if they might just be grateful instead. We’ll never know, of course, but it did lead me to re-evaluate my conversation with my friend and the project that was taking forever.
My best conclusion came in the form of a better response than offering every helpful Hannah hint I could think of. These suggestions might just have been as overwhelming as the scare my fickle finger of fate gave to the black ant when I removed the tiny stones. So I called my friend back and said, “I know this project seems never-ending, but I believe, if you keep on trying everything you can think of and don’t give up, it will eventually get done. I know you can do it!”
Later in the day, I joined my husband for a second afternoon of eating watermelon and spitting seeds outside our RV while sitting in the Arizona desert. (Where else can you get ripe watermelon in January?) He remarked that our seeds from the previous day’s session were gone. I wondered if the birds had gotten them.
As we watched, first one, then another black ant headed toward our freshly deposited seeds. We tracked their burrow to a spot about 12 feet away. Now these were tiny ants! One watermelon seed was at least 10 time their weight!
“Can’t be the ants who took all the seeds,” I said.
“Must be,” he said.
As we kept track of their activities, we found individual ants tackling their chosen seed with such complete attention and vigor, I was tired. One ant got its seed stuck between two small rocks that must’ve seemed like boulders. After tugging and pulling and pushing, it stopped to climb to a higher elevation, then investigated the surrounding area in a circular path. Sure enough. In about five minutes, the ant had changed course and freed the seed so it could take off on a different angle toward home.
I saw another one with a similar problem, and I tried to help by removing the stones it was pushing its seed against. I scared the ant away. It must’ve seen my finger as some giant bolt from the sky. A threatening hand, rather than a benevolent one. That seed didn’t get moved again while I was watching. It and the rest of the seeds, however, were gone the next day.
There’s no way to know their feelings about the matter. I hypothesized they might’ve begun groaning by the third day of our eating ritual. I thought they might be saying, “Oh, no! Here come some more of those dratted seeds. Won’t we ever get a break? How can we get anymore down our hole?”
My husband wondered if they might just be grateful instead. We’ll never know, of course, but it did lead me to re-evaluate my conversation with my friend and the project that was taking forever.
My best conclusion came in the form of a better response than offering every helpful Hannah hint I could think of. These suggestions might just have been as overwhelming as the scare my fickle finger of fate gave to the black ant when I removed the tiny stones. So I called my friend back and said, “I know this project seems never-ending, but I believe, if you keep on trying everything you can think of and don’t give up, it will eventually get done. I know you can do it!”
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