This morning, simply to celebrate the sun, I hung our wash outside to dry. Strung each piece against tree and sky. Threaded them like odd-shaped beads on a high wire.
Shirts and towels immediately began flirting with the breeze. Slacks and capris danced jigs in perfect time with the wind. And in clear view of the raspberry patch, the pretty things made indescribable moves.
When we bought our house, I didn't pay much attention to the clothesline. But four-year-old Benjabean noticed its old rugged poles immediately. He saw the nearest first, silhouetted against the white and blue autumn sky. Then he noticed the second. It towers over the shady grove at the bottom of the yard. The secret place.
He stood. Thought a moment. "Nana, you have two crosses in your backyard. Why?"
"They hold up the clothesline."
"What's a clothesline?"
That surprised me. I'm a first generation mostly-dryer-user, so the memory of the family laundry flapping in frequent coastal blows remains vivid. (As does the rush to haul it in before the typical washday rains.)
I'll have to make sure to use the line when the grandbeans are around, I thought, as I clamped the wooden clothespins over the Preacher's pyjamas. But suddenly I wondered something: was I doing right by my family textiles this sunny morning? Some say there's a protocol for hanging clothes.
The people who live in Singapore's high-rise apartments don't seem to follow any protocol. In glorious freedom and unsorted array, their clean laundry sways high above the streets, dangling from poles telescoping straight out their windows.
I've seen that myself, and wondered how often Singaporeans lose laundry to the wind. What a shock it would be to find, while pedaling bike ten stories below, that the heavens have delivered a new shirt. Pasted it on as you rode.
Pinning our damp clothing to the line, I wondered about Western protocol. About whether I'd done it right, or if any lurking hanging-out-laundry-police could fine me for unlawful and disorderly handling of wet things. Later, I did a little research online. Sure enough, I'd broken almost every dearly held laundry law, except this one:"Throughout the hanging of undergarments, it is best to check that degenerate neighbours are not feasting their eyes on the personals."
Trees border our backyard. No neighbours, degenerate or otherwise, have feasting opportunity. Only a pair of agitated wrens observed me this morning. Their shrill buzzes warned me to steer clear of their house, hanging high on the east cross.
I've thought long about laundry today. About how beautiful clean is. How fragrant. About how much sweeter the world would be if everyone hung their wash out under sunny skies sometimes.
And about how often in my heart I've stood in the shadow of another old rugged cross. Bowed low before Christ there. And humbled by forgiveness, felt my freshly washed soul flap about in delirious, glorious freedom.
No laws there either. No slaps on the wrist. Just grace. Just grace.
