Getting Laundered

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I set down the meditation pillow and arrange it neatly atop a small rug, which is itself neatly arranged in a rectangular shaft of sunlight. I then drop an tangled pile of clean laundry in front of the cushion. The clothes are still warm and smell fresh, unscented. I bow to the cushion then I turn and bow to the laundry and sit down, legs crossed uncomfortably beneath me.

I pick up each bit of clothes, fold it neatly and place it into a pile, separated by family member. There is a Madeleine pile, a Juniper pile, a Kristin pile, a David pile, and a pile of assorted towels, rags and the like. Each gets its due attention, imbued with my intention to take care of things. I pay attention, not in a worried or overly-attentive way like a hover-parent, but in a Rightly attentive way. I fold each item to completion, nothing more and nothing less. And of course my mind wanders and then I remember to pay attention and so I do and return to the task at hand. Grab, smooth, fold, breath, place into pile, repeat. Inhaling, exhaling; rising, falling; thoughts coming, thoughts going. Each moment, complete by itself. Each article of clothing taken complete care of.

Folding laundry, one of the most ordinary acts, is thus turned into something…. Hmmm, I hesitate here. Its actually not turned into something or transformed into the extraordinary, which is what I find myself wanting to say Rather, its allowed to be exactly what it is – folding laundry and by allowing to be just what it is, its becomes ordinary. Nothing special at all.


written by David LaFever

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