The most exquisite parts of life are nestled in ordinary things.
Like laundry.

The ritual… Folding. Smoothing. Flipping. Tucking.

I love the consciousness that lives in the creases.
The way touch lingers in cotton and fibers.
The freshness reminds me of home.

It’s not the clothes and linens.
It’s the story they tell.

The sweatshirt a former lover left behind.
My daughter’s middle school beach towel with the faded palm trees. Those holey socks I refuse to throw away because my sissy gave them to me.

Laundry holds memory.
Intimacy.
Emotional archaeology.
Where touch, scent, and texture reveal what the mind forgets.

And beneath the mundanity of doing laundry is me.
Tired. Tender. Wanting.

Pondering the care I give freely.
The softness I often hide.
The sentimentality I slip into with ease.

This week, I’m folding laundry like a ceremony.

Threads are prayers.
Wrinkles are reminders.
Scent is incantation.

Tending to what we wear and use on our skin is a blessing.

The love that shows up in the wash is a gift.

Turning toward softness,