Recently, I peruse my James Allen compilation with my first coffee, like it’s scripture. A choice quote from this morning’s reading:
“It is a fatal delusion with men to think that life is detached from the momentary thought and act, and not to understand that the passing thought and deed is the foundation of life. When this is fully understood all things are seen as sacred, and every act becomes religious.”
so inspired, I go about my daily chores diligently. Ive added another task to my morning routine– after coffee, and before writing and working out.
I make a conscious effort to scour and scrub one article of clothing with the endgame of reviving them with some semblance of whiteness.
I’ve already bitched here and elsewhere about how the free state wash comes back looking dirty although it’s technically “clean.”
(as it happened, I neglected my appearance for so long, feeling bad for myself, not caring what I looked like, with the real possibility of an almost life sentence–15 years!!–hanging over my head, a veritable sword of Damocles.
I was basically on suicidewatch, and my shit got dingy. I finally “recovered” when I readjusted to reality, and my capability to envision the future, any future again…my future…of a meaningful existence, returned with unmatched clarity and vigor.)
One rinse cycle the old-fashioned way is an assiduous handwashing in the sink, consuming a half bar of soap in the process. I lather both the inside and out before rinsing, and then wringing out and hanging to dry.
i neglected my bedsheets the longest (this metaphor becoming more obvious..) I attended to all my other apparel first because they were part of my physical presentation, my public facade. The deep, private shit aka my sheets that no really saw but in which i lay in for most of the day were stained the worst, what looked like indelibly.
the past three days ive washed the same sheet twice and another once. Each rinse has made only the slightest improvement, like the sheet was my soul or something, (i cant believe im even using those words, but there no other way to say it), and each time I wrung it out, grimey water spilling into the sink, im only improving it incrementally. the grey broth tht comes off in the wash represents all my past life– the lingering resentments, grievous faults and old sins.
Each wash is like making amends for all that dirt and grime, for a self-indulgent, unexamined life….without a word, or confession, the universe picking up on my intention…