Our laundry piles up, stacks up, backs up, blocking light and joy. Nothing makes me feel like a failure as a keeper of my home like laundry too long ignored, taunting me from its piles. Just like the piles and dirty laundry of my heart.

There is joy in the dealing with the pile, in the methodical rhythms of cleaning, folding, putting away, healing. Piles shrink, feathers and sheets and souls are smoothed. Discipline and order create space and light. Grace found in even laundry.

The washerwomen hang in the laundry room, reminding me of wild grace.