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Transcript
- You are standing over a sink full of greasy plates, and for the first time in your life, you actually want to stay there. Not because you love dish soap, but because the rhythm of scrubbing has finally drowned out the noise in your head. Let’s unpack that scene for a second. It’s Tuesday evening. The day has been loud. Your inbox is a battlefield, your commute was a study in human impatience, and now you’re home, surrounded by the physical debris of survival. A pile of laundry. A counter sticky with breakfast syrup. And there it is: the sink. Full of water, hot enough to steam your glasses, smelling faintly of lemon and exhaustion. Most of us rush through this part of the day. We treat it like an enemy, a penalty box we have to endure before we can collapse into bed or scroll through our phones until our eyes burn. But what if I told you that this moment, right here at the sink, is where the real writing happens? Not the kind you put in a notebook with leather bindings, but the kind that writes itself on your soul through repetition. There is a specific kind of peace that only exists when your hands are submerged in warm soapy water. It’s a sensory deprivation tank disguised as a kitchen chore. When you scrub a pot, you aren’t just removing food particles. You are engaging in a ritual of release. Each swipe of the sponge is a small surrender to the present moment. You can’t worry about next week’s deadline while you’re focused on getting that burnt cheese off the bottom of the pan. The task demands your total attention. It asks nothing of you but presence. And in that demand, it gives you everything. Silence. Just you, the water, and the slow, rhythmic motion of cleaning. It’s meditative, sure, but it’s also deeply, stubbornly human. We forget how much of our history is tied to these simple acts. Our ancestors didn’t have power tools or instant gratification. They had their hands, their time, and the endless cycle of keeping their world tidy. When you stand there, elbow-deep in suds, you are connecting to every woman who ever stood in that same spot, trying to find a moment of quiet in a chaotic life. Think about the cadence of folding laundry. Have you noticed it? It’s not random. It’s structured. You pick up a shirt, smooth the wrinkles, fold one side in, then the other, create a rectangle, and stack it. In, out, fold, stack. In, out, fold, stack. This isn’t just organization; it’s poetry. It’s iambic pentameter made of cotton and linen. When you move with intention, the mundane becomes musical. I remember reading an essay once by Joan Didion, or maybe it was Annie Dillard—let’s say it was both, because they both understood this alchemy. They wrote about how ordinary objects, when observed closely enough, reveal their own strange beauty. A sock is not just a sock. It’s a tube of knit fabric that has held the warmth of a foot, the sweat of a run, the comfort of a lazy Sunday. When you fold it with care, you are honoring that history. You are acknowledging that this small object matters. This is where the subtext is screaming, my friend. We live in a culture that tells us to optimize, to speed up, to automate the boring stuff so we can get to the ‘important’ things. But who decided that folding towels isn’t important? Who decided that sweeping the porch doesn’t count as creative work? I argue that it does. Because creativity isn’t just about generating new ideas from thin air. It’s about caring for what already exists. It’s about tending to your environment with such love that it reflects back at you. When you sweep your floor, you are curating your space. You are deciding what stays and what goes. Dust bunnies? Gone. Crumbs? Vanished. Clarity? Achieved. The act of cleaning is an act of editing. You are cutting away the excess to reveal the essential truth of your home. And that is a profoundly literary act. Tell me what you saw in the margins of your last chore session. Because I think that’s where the magic hides. We often talk about literature in terms of plot and character, but the real story is often in the details—the dust motes dancing in a sunbeam, the way light hits a wet windowpane, the sound of rain against the roof while you’re vacuuming. These are the images that stick with us long after the plot has faded. As a former film editor, I spent years looking for those tiny, almost invisible moments that gave a scene its heartbeat. A twitch of an eye. A pause before a kiss. A hand reaching out and then pulling back. In domestic life, these moments are everywhere, if you’re willing to look. They’re in the steam rising from a mug of tea as you wait for the kettle to boil. They’re in the texture of a towel drying your hair. They’re in the weight of a blanket pulled up to your chin. When we write poetry about chores, we aren’t being silly or trivial. We are practicing radical attention. We are saying that this moment, this breath, this scrub, matters. It matters because it is all we have. We don’t get infinite days. We get Tuesdays. We get sinks full of dishes. We get loads of laundry. And if we can find the poem in the pile, we might just survive the week with our hearts intact. Consider the poet Mary Oliver, who spent her life writing about birds and swans and grasshoppers. She found the divine in the natural world. But what about the divine in the synthetic? What about the grace in a plastic spray bottle? What about the holiness in a lint roller? There is a sacredness in maintenance. In keeping things running. In preserving the order against the entropy of daily life. It’s a quiet rebellion against chaos. And it’s a form of love letter to yourself. There’s something confessional about doing the dishes late at night. When the house is dark and the TV is off, you’re alone with your thoughts and the clatter of ceramic. It’s in these quiet hours that we process the day. We replay conversations. We worry about tomorrow. We grieve losses that happened ten years ago. The repetitive motion of washing helps us untangle the knots in our minds. It’s like knitting, but instead of yarn, you’re using water and soap. And instead of a scarf, you’re making a path to clarity. I’ve heard from listeners who tell me they do their best thinking while walking their dogs or watering their plants. Same principle. The body moves, so the mind can wander safely. It’s a safe space for imagination. When you’re folding sheets, you don’t have to be sharp. You don’t have to be witty or insightful. You just have to be steady. And that steadiness allows other parts of you to wake up. Ideas come. Memories surface. Songs play. It’s a form of active meditation. And unlike sitting still and trying to force silence, which often leads to anxiety, moving your hands gives your brain a job to do so it doesn’t spiral. It grounds you. It reminds you that you are here, in this body, in this room, right now. You are not in the past. You are not in the future. You are holding a plate. You are rinsing it. You are placing it in the rack. That’s it. That’s the whole universe. And somehow, that’s enough. It’s more than enough. It’s everything. Because when you accept the smallness of the task, you stop fighting the largeness of your emotions. You let them wash away, one rinse at a time. For too long, domestic labor has been dismissed as unskilled, invisible, and unworthy of artistic consideration. We praise the painter, the writer, the director. But who praises the person who keeps the lights on? Who maintains the sanctuary? It’s time we rewrite that narrative. Cleaning is not just a chore; it’s an art form. It requires skill, patience, and aesthetic judgment. Where does the vase go? How should the pillows be arranged? What color palette feels calming? These are creative decisions. And when we acknowledge them as such, we honor the labor, particularly the labor of women, who have historically borne the brunt of this invisible work. By writing poetry about chores, we are reclaiming our time. We are saying that our days are not just a series of tasks to be completed, but a collection of moments to be experienced. We are refusing to rush through our lives. We are slowing down. We are noticing. And in that noticing, we find joy. Not the loud, explosive kind, but the quiet, steady glow of contentment. It’s the satisfaction of a clean kitchen. It’s the pride of a made bed. It’s the peace of a swept floor. These are small victories, but they add up. They build a life. And a life built on small, intentional acts is a life worth living. So the next time you’re faced with a mountain of laundry, don’t sigh. Smile. Pick up a shirt. Fold it. Stack it. And write a poem about it. Or better yet, just feel it. Let the fabric remind you of who you are. Let the rhythm calm you. Let the cleanliness renew you. You are not just cleaning. You are creating. You are caring. You are coming home. I’m Caoimhe. Keep your hands busy, keep your heart open, and I’ll see you in the margins.