The Contemplativeness of Things

Like laundry, I mean.

It’s been said a lot, that

there’s meaning in small things,

and of course I only

want to say new things

which is at best naïve

and at worst self-important.

But I’ve gotten off track.

Here’s what it feels like:

one moment you’re folding laundry

and it’s part of that endless

list of things to do (they don’t call it

a laundry list for nothing)

and in a split second,

it transmutes—the whole thing, your

hands, your mind, your heart, the

things you’re

touching—

into eternity, or into

meaning, or maybe into happiness

although that’s not quite it.

The point is that there’s a

switch and in an instant making

a pile of shirts

isn’t a task but an act in itself

and you feel that a life is made

of things like this;

but then you rebel because

even saying that sounds lame,

and the feeling itself is

enormous, really.

There’s a peach colored shirt,

loose-fitting and a bit stretched out,

a little pocket on the front left side.

I feel breezy in it, and grown-up

(the oddest thing about that being
that it’s ceased to feel odd).

And in the act of setting it on

four other shirts, I was

transported more solidly into

the current moment than I

ever manage on purpose.

The more I talk around the moment

the further it gets from words.
But it was beautiful.