Doing the Damn Dishes
It’s 11:45 pm on a weekday night, and I have just finished my fifth round of dishes for the day. My lovely co-inhabitants — spouse, two teens, two beagles — are tucked into their beds (more or less in the case of the teens), as I sit here and nurse my raw wrists and fingers. I know that as fall goes on and humidity and cold temperatures become the norm, my skin isn’t going to get any better, especially because this year, the onslaught of dishes, for crying out loud, is never ending.
These late-night shifts of remaining household duties, they’ve been my solitary task for years. I don’t deal with them as well as I used to, when my body was younger and my energy abundant. Also, the kids were smaller and ate less. Significantly less. And they used less dishes and silverware because the rule of teenage life seems to dictate maximum mess per meal must occur. We didn’t used to live in Covid quarantine, so a bunch of meals were typically packed up and eaten at school or work. If I let my monkey mind bounce off to where it wants to spin tonight, it will take me down the road of: 5x30x7. That’s approximately the number of times I’ve done dishes in the last seven months since we’ve all been home almost exclusively. 1,050. Maddening. That’s a lot of scrubbing and soaking and slaving. And swearing. That’s a chunk of my life.
Lately, as we’re continually cooped up at home and lack our usual coping mechanisms, it’s easy to feel frustrated by these mundane duties, and I have to remind myself that even thankless, skin-wrecking tasks present an opportunity. Thich Nhat Hanh teaches, as I remember with my fuzzy late-night brain, that we can be mindful as we go about our lives. We can breathe and dive deeply as we walk the halls, sweep the floors, turn the compost, and yes — clean mountains of dishes. Tonight’s messy pile then has gifted me the freedom to breathe peace in and peace out and mindfully feel gratitude:
Gratitude for warm, running, safe water and a new sponge.
Gratitude for my favorite all-cotton dishtowels, a gift from my Mama back in Germany.
Gratitude for having enough to prepare food for all of us, including two nearly always hungry teenagers.
Gratitude for having learned how to cook for numerous specific dietary needs — gluten-free, dairy-free, night-shade free, sugar-free, high protein, low carb — and still somehow send everyone to bed satisfied.
Gratitude for the gentle neighbor who runs grocery trips for us when curbside pick-up isn’t available.
Gratitude for our temperamental apple trees that grew the apples in today’s crisp, in which we all got to indulge late in the evening because, well, it’s 2020 — so anything goes.
Gratitude for having had time today to prepare meals and more or less enjoy them if not as a whole family at the table (which is covered with screens and projects) but at least with my daughter while we chat and relax over the Great British Baking Show.
Gratitude for having seen my son and husband play an intense game of chess on our surprisingly sunny porch earlier and for then joyfully reading Backman’s Things My Son Needs to Know About the World with their dinner.
Gratitude for the soft snoring of my beagles in the dining room.
Gratitude for the night sky and all the stunning stars over my head as I take out the overflowing compost bowl.
Gratitude for being here, now, alive, despite some health scares in past years and despite having to face the realities of a viral epidemic, crumbling sociopolitical and communal structures, and all the social-emotional fallout that comes with that.
Gratitude for remembering to breathe and being able to breathe; this year has gifted me time to slow down by myself and with my loved ones in a way that hasn’t been possible in the last two decades.
Gratitude for true, honest connection and reconnection with family and friends; it feels amazing to have time to tune into people who matter.
Gratitude for the peace that washes over me if I just remember to let it.
I’m so busy being grateful that my dishwater nearly runneth over. And on nights like this one, when midnight has passed and a peaceful quiet descends over our neighborhood, I can almost feel what life might have been like during slower, more intentional times when tasks were carried out with mindfulness and clocks ticked away without urgency.
So, I’ll keep at it — one plate and fork and tea mug, one precious moment at a time. What could be more important, I wonder as I ponder this mountain of dishes that now waits to be dried, besides calm breath and present thankfulness? Maybe the need to figure out tomorrow’s meals. But that can wait for another breath or two.
