I enjoy doing the dishes. White, soapy, hot water running over my hands. As I stand at the sink, I contemplate the difference between the color white of the soap bubbles and the color white in my skin. Color always needs a second, or sometimes even a third or fourth, adjective to get it right. Soap Bubble White is not the same as Really White Skin White. Because even Really White Skin is Tan.
During the day I let the dishes, pots, and pans pile up and I wash them in the late afternoon. Having a nice stack of dishes to do gives me time for contemplation at the sink. No one is talking to me. The radio is off, the television is in the other room, my laptop is hibernating at the desk far away. Nothing to interfere with my mind and the soap and the task at hand.
The dishes sit on one side of the sink in a lopsided, haphazzard way, but they get washed in a certain kind of order and stacked in a neat and tidy way in the rack on the other side of the sink. I take each item and wash it, looking at it, making sure that it gets to the dish rack without getting dropped or broken. As I wash the dishes that’s all that I am doing, that is where my thought is. I’m not trying to rush, I’m not complaining, I’m not bitching because someone left me their stack of dishes to do. I am just washing and enjoying the sensation of the water and soap on my hands, the light coming through the window making miniscule rainbows with the bubbles. It’s quite peaceful. I’m in the moment. I imagine my worries of the day going down the drain with the rinse water and by the time the dishes are done, my mind is empty.
Here I am, at the sink, and that’s all there is.