washing dishes

I spend a lot of my day washing dishes.

Seasons come and go.

Days are long and the decades are short.

But still I find myself washing dishes.

The meals are always changing.

But also, mostly, they stay the same.

I see the same cups and plates with cracks in them.

After all this time I am still washing dishes.

Depending on the season, I have to use different tools.

Sometimes a brush with a long handle. Sometimes steel wool.

Sponges are always present, changing every few weeks.

I am still washing dishes.

In the winter time, there are more dishes.

The food is heavier, as is the cookwear.

I will often spend more time in the kitchen.

Still washing dishes.

Once I washed dishes and there were baby bottles.

Then I would wash and there were sippy cups.

And after that just a whole bunch of random cups, plastic and glass.

Still, I washed dishes.

I get used to a certain quantity of dishes.

But every once in a while, something big happens, and that quantity decreases.

I notice afterward that I spend just a little less time washing.

Still I wash.

I used to hate it. It seemed all I did was wash.

Wash wash wash, all day.

It bothered me because I wanted to be somewhere else.

I didn't understand the meaning behind washing dishes.

I didn't know that washing dishes was a sign of community, of love.

I remembered: There were periods in my life where I had only one dish in the cupboard.

One plate, one bowl, one cup, one wine glass, one set of utensils.

I still washed dishes, but it felt different.

Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash

I thought I was happy that it took me a fraction of the time to wash.

But after a while I realized what it meant.

After that, every chance I got when at a friend's or family's house, I would wash.

I knew what I was missing.

Sometimes I use the dishwasher. It's not cheating, not really.

We have lots of people around and it helps.

But I have to be careful what I put in there.

The robot helps me wash dishes, and I welcome it.

With all of the soap and warm water, the skin on my hands feels dry.

When I sit I observe the cracks in my fingertips.

I wonder if the soap that cleans the plates also cleans my hands?

Maybe I should use gloves.

I notice when I take my time, I feel better.

Sometimes I listen to music. But mostly I don't.

The monotony of the running water and the clanking of the metal and porcelain

accompany my thoughts and helps me come to conclusions I never could have otherwise.

I look at dishes as necessary tiny disasters.

We share a meal together, break bread, and the natural result of this communion is to clean up.

A micro chaos, remnants of a collective feasting, which needs reordering.

I am the chosen one, ready to give order to this chaos. Let's go!

If instead of lament I choose to love this moment, it's different.

It no longer feels like a chore, I am no longer discouraged.

I choose instead, to accept this lot, and move ahead.

By voluntary acceptance, what could have been a loathing turns in to a challenge.

So in this sense, washing dishes is good for the soul.

Next time you get the opportunity, you should do it. Don't duck out.

With every scrap of food you scrub away in suds, you will be making something whole again.

You're doing more than just washing dishes.