Latest / Still Standing: Stories of Resilience, Survival & Strength / Finding Sacred Stillness in the Mundane Task of Washing Dishes | Still Standing
Transcript
- You are standing at your kitchen sink, staring at a mountain of greasy plates, and for the first time all day, you aren't thinking about what’s next. You are just here, in the warm water, holding a single fork. Take a breath with me. Right now. Feel your shoulders drop away from your ears. I know that feeling. The one where the day hasn’t even fully ended, but your mind is already racing through tomorrow’s to-do list, last week’s regrets, and this week’s anxieties. You’re physically present, scrubbing a saucepan, but mentally, you’re three hours ahead or ten years back. We live in a culture that treats our hands as tools for production, not instruments of presence. We wash dishes because we have to. We clean the floor because it’s dirty. We reply to emails because they demand attention. But rarely do we stop to ask: What did that cost you? Not in money, but in spirit. In the quiet moments between tasks, we abandon ourselves to efficiency. We want to be done. We want to move on. But today, I want to invite you into the space before the done. I want to talk about the grease, the soap, the steam rising off the ceramic plate in your hand. Because there is a profound, almost spiritual depth hidden in the repetitive motion of washing dishes by hand, if only we let it speak. Let’s sit in that for a second. Think about the dishwasher. It’s a miracle of modern engineering, isn’t it? You load it, press a button, and walk away. It does the work while you read, while you scroll, while you pretend to listen to your partner. And I’m not saying the dishwasher is bad. I love my dishwasher. But when you outsource the act of cleaning to a machine, you also outsource the mindfulness. You remove the ritual. When I was working in corporate, I used to view any task that didn’t generate revenue as wasted time. If I wasn’t producing, I was failing. So I rushed through everything. Coffee consumed in the car. Lunch eaten at the desk. Dishes washed in a blur so I could get back to the screen. I thought I was being productive. In reality, I was just numb. I was disconnecting from the sensory reality of my life. I was treating my home like a hotel room, something temporary to be maintained rather than inhabited. And I think many of us are doing the same thing. We treat our domestic spaces as backgrounds for our main lives, rather than the main lives themselves. But the dishes don’t care about your productivity metrics. The dishes only care about whether you are willing to stay with them. I remember a specific Tuesday evening a few years ago. I had just left a high-pressure job that had essentially hollowed me out. I was living in a small apartment, trying to rebuild my sense of self after years of running on adrenaline and anxiety. That night, I came home exhausted. Not sleepy, but soul-tired. There were dishes in the sink. Just a few, actually. A mug, a bowl, a spoon. But looking at them felt insurmountable. I sat on the floor, leaning against the cabinet, and cried. Not because I was sad about the dishes, but because I realized how disconnected I had become from the simple acts of caring for myself. I couldn’t even face the mundane. The next morning, I decided to try something strange. I decided to wash those dishes slowly. No music. No phone. No rushing. Just warm water, lavender soap, and the sponge. As I touched the sponge to the ceramic, I focused entirely on the texture. The rough side, the soft side. The way the bubbles formed and popped. For the first time in months, I felt my nervous system settle. The repetitive motion became a meditation. The heat of the water became a comfort. I wasn’t just cleaning; I was grounding. I was returning to my body. And in that small, wet corner of the kitchen, I found a piece of myself I thought I’d lost forever. There is something deeply healing about the repetition. When you wash by hand, you enter a rhythm. Scrub, rinse, dry. Scrub, rinse, dry. It’s a mantra without words. Your brain doesn’t have to solve problems. It doesn’t have to plan strategies. It just has to follow the flow. This is what psychologists call 'flow state,' but usually, we associate that with painting or running or coding. We forget that it can happen with laundry or gardening or chopping vegetables. When you engage fully in these simple tasks, you give your prefrontal cortex a rest. You allow your default mode network to quiet down. You stop performing and start being. And in that stillness, insights often come. Not big, dramatic epiphanies, but small, gentle clarifications. Like realizing you’ve been holding tension in your jaw. Or remembering to call a friend. Or simply acknowledging that it’s okay to rest. The dishes become a mirror. They reflect your pace, your patience, your willingness to care for the things that matter, even when no one is watching. Even when no one is applauding. Especially then. We need to talk about the invisibility of this labor, especially for women. Society tells us that true work happens outside the home. In offices, in labs, on stages. Domestic work is seen as secondary, optional, easy. But anyone who has ever lived knows the truth. Keeping a home clean is hard. It requires constant vigilance, physical effort, and emotional regulation. When you wash dishes by hand, you are engaging in an act of radical acceptance. You are accepting the mess, the chaos, the reality of life, and transforming it back into order. You are saying, 'This matters. My space matters. My peace matters.' It’s a quiet rebellion against the hustle culture that demands we always be doing more. By slowing down to wash a plate, you are refusing to rush through your own life. You are claiming time for yourself in a world that wants to sell you every minute. You are honoring the invisible labor that holds communities together. And that is powerful. That is holy. Let’s not underestimate the strength it takes to show up for the mundane, day after day, with grace and intention. So, here is my invitation to you. Tonight, when you finish dinner, don’t just pile the plates in the sink and walk away. Don’t turn on the dishwasher and escape. Instead, fill the basin. Turn on the warm water. Take a deep breath. Notice the temperature on your skin. Smell the soap. Watch the light dance on the water’s surface. Pick up one item. Wash it as if it were the most important object in the universe. Because in that moment, it is. It is your anchor. It is your connection to the present. If your mind wanders, gently bring it back. To the water. To the cloth. To the sound of the spray. This isn’t about perfection. It’s about practice. It’s about learning to be comfortable in your own skin, in your own home, in your own life. It’s about finding joy in the small, overlooked moments. And when you’re done, when you put the last cup away, take a moment to look around. See the clean counter. Feel the calm in your chest. You did that. You created that peace. And you can do it again tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after that. Until it becomes a part of who you are. Not a chore, but a gift. Thank you for washing with me tonight. For showing up, even in the smallest ways. I’ll see you in the next episode. Until then, be gentle with yourself. You’re doing better than you think.