I love doing the wash. I love the process of the hand-agitation; I love the naturalness of wind+solar-powered line drying.
Two years a go, I never would have foreseen myself stating that I rather ENJOY laundering our clothes by hand. Living in Chicago, it was quite a feat getting up the motivation to load up the car and drive the six blocks down to the Bubbleland lavanderia. I wanted to be there weekly, but it often turned into two weeks or more between visits; we’d roll into the Laundromat with SIX loads of wash and I’d have to threaten Dread for him to not leave me to the mountainous piles alone.
Even when I lived in an apartment that had our own indoor washer/dryer set, I’d procrastinate on the simple act of walking to the back room, throwing things into the machine, throwing soap, and selecting “Start.”
My change in position could have something to do with the livity of the sunny, breezy, tropical atmosphere. It could be the baby holding me to a higher standard of efficiency. It could be my maternal homemaking skills are now gearing up into full force and I don’t see responsibilities as chores. It could be because, really, we don’t have a washing machine at the moment so what else am I gonna do? Not wash?
Whatever my underlying reasons for the sentiment, I enjoy hand-washing our laundry and using the lines in the back of the house to dry. It’s a meditation in itself; a rhythm and a production. Things become clean thanks to my concerted energy. And it’s also a reminder to give thanks that I’ve the privilege to live in a place where working with nature’s elements is a must in the functioning of daily life.