Redemption

This is what you have chosen,
to wash the dishes by hand each day,
to touch each thing you use,
to feel the dirt of the day,

encrusted on each plate,
to scrape each hardened remnant away
like ancient sin,
feeling the smoothness of the old china

beneath your fingers as it emerges
clean again.

It is slow work, but not unwelcome,
a time of prayer, of cleansing and mindfulness
as you feel the hot water
and smell the off mix of cleansing suds

and old food.
It is a place where you worship
at your ordinary altar,
and give thanks

that there is food to eat,
and meals to share,

and most of all, that you take none of it
for granted. For this you know –
everything can be taken away in an instant,
and too often is.

This is what you have chosen,
to do less, but to do it fully,
to savor the few things left you
and make them matter,

to see and feel and find
the meaning, even when perhaps

no meaning was meant.
You put the last bowl on the rack.
and drain the sink, listening
to the water as it gurgles down.

There is sludge in the strainer,
dark and unrecognizable,
and your fingers feel the mushy debris
of the last meal

and dry your hands.
Church is done. It is time to face the day.

About this poem.

I have not had a dishwasher for many years now. Well meaning people in my life are always telling me I should get one. And perhaps I should. But perhaps not. Because in gaining time, I might lose something else.

The picture above is, obviously, my kitchen sink after doing dishes this morning. The picture below is my kitchen window sill, just above my sink. See, it really is like a little altar!

Tom