There is an art to washing dishes.
This we can confirm and find comfort in.
Rinse the whole fucking sink because you know it’s disgusting.
Squirt a little soap in there.
Pick your first victim.
I go for large irregular utensils such as spatulas and tongs.
Never just a regular spoon or fork.
Select your sponge or scrubber.
I use both for certain jobs.
Reliable soap that is always blue and reliable.
Then we get to work.
Then the odd thing happens, and I get into this flow. Mindfulness. Ten years ago started my journey on that. However, I’ve been a lifelong germaphobe. Washing other people’s dishes and their gross nature and even grosser habits causes this disgusting uncertainty. Wondering where this plate has been. Dear lord, how long has it been since they’ve brushed their teeth and accidently bit down on their spoon? Could they have licked it? Disgusting, disgusting examples.
Yet, here I find myself with dry hands and faded little wrinkles. I have a sense of self-gratitude and got the gift of letting go and having no thought in mind. My own personal frequency seemingly whimsical with little birdy noises instead of the cuckoo conundrum I’m usually using for some parable to taunt myself.
Clean dishes. Clean kitchen. Cooked dinner.
What else could I ask for in my allusion-ary tales?
Humdrum.
I didn’t even wash all the dishes.
Call me, maestro.
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