Im told Im odd for loving my rituals, like hanging laundry on the line and periodically cleaning all my shoes and installing new laces, but to take one example—dishwashing—theres a payoff in my quirk. Every night, unless Im so worn out I crash without going through my unwinding rituals, the last thing I do is to go to the kitchen, wash all my dishes and pots and cutlery, wipe down the stovetop (my only surface in my 1940s counterless kitchen), and put a new candle in the little candleholder, and put out a clean mug with a fresh teabag and a spoon. I go to bed with pink, clean hands, and sleep. In the morning, there is one place in the whole world where there are no chores backed up, and a clean canvas on which to make a start. I step into the kitchen, where an empty white sink awaits, and a row of pots on hooks, and I light the stove under my kettle, light the candle, ring the bell that reminds me that I am what and who I am because of all the people who came together to make me that person, many of whom are no longer with me, and begin. Every night, a ritual of clearing obstacles, and every morning, a new start. Weird, right?
Posted on: Fri, 12 Dec 2014 13:43:12 +0000
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