August 16 2006

Text By Greg Fallis

There is a sort of sanctuary in the little daily domestic cares that fill up the lesser minutes of our day. Ironing a shirt in the morning can be an almost meditative experience; it takes as long as it takes, and there's no point in trying to rush. You attend to each motion; you work methodically, with care, repeating a familiar pattern you've followed countless times in the past. That repetition creates a detached awareness. Zen and the Art of Ironing.

And then you put it on. There are few sensations quite so satisfying as putting on a freshly ironed shirt. The warmth, the quiet snick of buttons being buttoned, the scent of steamed cotton. It is oddly comforting.

The poet Anne Sexton described God as a "washerwoman who walks out when you're clean but not ironed." That's okay. We prefer to do the ironing ourselves.