Dishwashing My Way to Inner Peace

 It's damp on the back of my neck, where the perspiration is slowly growing cool. Outside, the paths are still blanketed with snow from the ice storm last weekend, so I hit the driveway and sidewalk with a couple of shovels. Breaking up the packed, damp and crusty snow and throwing it aside or scooping it out to the street was hard work, and created it's own scraping, scratchy rhythm. The gritty grind of the scraping against the quiet; no birdsong to be heard. A large truck squeaked its way down the street, sounding like some sort of broken, stilted jack-in-the-box. The woman who lives a few blocks away  walked her tiny dog in a stroller and her older border collie moseyed along beside her. Her dedication to her dogs makes me smile every time. 

It was really starting to rain when I finished my work, so grabbed my jacket I'd left on the stair railing-- getting wet without me inside it-- and put the shovels on the porch instead of the garage. Indoors, a cup of cold water and some ibuprofen for my sore back were next in line. Waiting for me now are the dishes, and my peace of mind. 

I've referenced what I laughingly call my dishwashing meditation practice, but thought I'd take the time to explain it today and prove that I'm not full of malarkey. I've never been a person who finds sitting meditation restful. Maybe it's my funky brain wiring, but I have the tendency to become restless. As a seeker in my early 20s, I attended a free meditation workshop at the Dharma Rain Zen Center. The people guiding the meditation were nice, but they kept telling me to sit up straight, straighten my back, and I came away feeling more stressed about my posture than with any sense of relaxation. I've since learned that some can do their meditation lying down, which is far more preferable to me, so I'm not focused on my body. 

Dishwashing is an ideal time for meditation for me, as it's something I do at least once-- often multiple--times a day. The radio stays off, and as I immerse my hands into the hot, sudsy water of the basin, I immerse my self into the experience. The focus is solely on the task before me. Feeling the heat of the water deep in the bones of my fingers, the sweep of the sponge on the plate. It's so interesting how, even with a sponge, somehow I can feel the tiny bits of grit fused to a cereal bowl, leftover egg yolk slick and stuck on, or the sticky grab of honey on a knife left to congeal. 

I pay attention to my breath, inhaling the slight orange smell of the detergent. Notice the spray of tiny water droplets when I turn the water on to rinse the plates, the slide of the pattern of the water as it slips from one surface and drops down into the drain. The little tiny air bubbles which collect of the backs of plates. The swirl of the water when I rinse glasses, the difference of sound between the stemware and the stoneware. The frothy sound the water makes when I rinse my teapot out, the water going down through the spout, pushing the tea leaves backward into the pot for easier removal. I love to see how each morning's tea leaves have unfurled: the fine cut reddish and green Darjeeling or the gently twisted, long strand Yunnan "Secret Mountain" leaves, olive and golden colored. Each tea has its own distinctive scent. It's a treat to breathe it in when I put the leaves into the scalded pot, it's also a nice reminder of that first sip later in the day, when I clean the pot to prepare it for the next day's tea. 

I notice my dishes, in a Marie Kondo sort of way. The vessels we use to prepare and serve food are dear to me.  I'm rather attached to most of the dishes, in some way or another. They are storied, with memories as well as utility. There is no single pattern, more a collection of colors and designs which make my heart glad. Some of them are chipped but functional, most are mismatched in some aspect, but like a crazy quilt, they brighten my table and my day. I take time to notice the different gradations in color, the dimples on the back of our antique cobalt plates, the brownish tannin stains inside the teacups we use daily. 

Then there's the silverware. Yes, it's been said that I'm not especially fond of washing silverware. Joe even wrote a poem for our wedding about that exact thing, which makes me smile. All that aside, silverware is essential and I'm grateful we have it. Washing each piece, examining the etching on the sides of each tine of the fork, the serration on the edge of a butter knife, the various versions of spoons we have-- so many, many tiny spoons for coffee, desserts, soup, measuring-- all of them with their many splendid designs on their handles. Each is lovingly washed, the bowl of the spoon refracting the water, splashing it if held too flat. 

If there's something unusual about my dishwashing preferences, its that I love a good, dirtied-up pan. I actually like getting them clean, so that the stainless steel Revereware pot my girlfriends gave me 25 or so years ago still gleams. Or a baking pan, set to soak, gets scoured with baking soda and rinsed many times over so the soda doesn't leave any residue. The feel of the washcloth on the cast iron skillet, breezily sliding away the remnants of the scrambled eggs from breakfast, then dried immediately, warm to the touch. 

I don't think about all of the other stuff. The 'I hafta do'-s that float through my head most other times. It is just me in that moment, doing an important task in a way that feels intimate and centering. I am in service to these vessels which serve us. While I do not believe ceramic and glass and metal are sentient beings, I do think my dishes are well-cared for, and I as I do this, I am also caring for myself. 

There are, of course, times when I do wish we had a dishwasher, but I'm unwilling to give up the cupboard space. Our little family of three rarely uses up more dishes than can fit in the rack. Our dishes also escape the etching and scale that comes with machine washing; likely, the Mighty Mouse cup would have lost its shine, as would have the set of cocktail glasses a friend gifted me 19 years ago, hand painted and used nearly every day. Handwashing preserves. 

It preserves my sanity each day, to take this little break and get deeply in communion with a daily activity many would find a boring chore. I wipe the counters down, the stove, clean the drains... and leave the task with a sense of gratitude for things like food, hot and running water, tea towels, the awesome dishrack we have, and the sense that some things can be relied upon. I revel in my good fortune that we have these things, knowing that it's all temporary-- some day, for some reason, I might not have these necessary conveniences. Being grateful-- nay, content-- is the best place to be. 

And to you my dear friend, I now say farewell. I have dishes to do.