This is my turf. The innuendo of a solace- far from the maddening crowd. I
can be myself. This is where I can see myself. Humbled. On the ground.
This is my yoga. A meditation of what I can willfully resolve and fulfill.
An assessment of what I will and have accomplished. This is a moment I
rehearse the words again and again– as a reality check of who I am and what I can subliminally impress.
.. and this is my affair I attend every week.
It is a menial job that no one cares to appreciate. This is the fabric of
a paternalistic upbringing where subordinates lovingly do. I surrender my
strength and my will to dispense this labour of love.
This was my avenue of daydreaming, as a kid and until now– when I decide to become busy rather than wallow in desperation of the hardship and stretches of life.
Separate the white from the colour. The judgment call of discriminating
evil from good. A hundred decisions of green and black, of white and
yellow, of pod or powder, of liquid or bar, of bleach or tablet, of baking soda and vinegar splash. The distinction of keeping the wiser choices.
This is my weekly affair. No words, just emotions. My moment of the silent eloquence of knowing where my children were– the whiff of perfume, the scent of spring, the marinara sauce spill on a white silk, the old sweat marks of Goodlife gym…
Stains are dissolved with a soak of a little vinegar, a sprint of baking soda, or maybe a dab of bleach. And gone. Hope this is reflective of life.
No one else can diligently do this best but mothers– with all their strength, with all their love…
As I carefully tuck these clothes at the whirlpool, I’d learn my family’s
whims and wants, preferences of silk than cotton, of cotton than wool, and
wool from abaca. Keep them clean, keep them soft, keep them fluffy. Keep
them crisp. Keep them neat. Keep them close. Just like life.
This is my escape from the too many worries of life when chores and actions become the panacea to entangled thoughts.