Clotheslines

I passed a brand new row of housing today. And although I drive through this section of town about once a month, this was the first time I noticed them. They were small homes, one right next to the other, with a sweet little yard in front. The grass, enjoying the warmer days, filled in the browns of winter with radiant bands of deep green.

The builder placed a ¾ wall across the back of each unit. They were a concrete fence of sorts, providing an illusion of privacy on a busy avenue. But what caught my attention as I drove past were the rows of freshly washed laundry gently waving in the crisp, spring breeze. I caught the reflection of the mid morning sun lighting bright, white sheets. And in the moments as I passed, I noticed several blue shirts, probably chambray, hanging neatly across the front row, already looking as if they had been perfectly pressed.

The scene triggered a strong memory for me, of helping my mother hang our own sheets on the backyard clothesline, of my father’s work shirts, hanging straight and at attention, as if they held a part of my father’s spirit, protective, respectful and strong.

As I drove by, I thought about the people who would be gathering the clothes later in the afternoon, folding as they went along. I wondered if they would hold the fresh laundry up to their faces and breathe in deeply the scent of the sun, the mountain air and the sprouts just coming up. I liked helping my mother with the laundry because I loved burying my face in my clean sheets and drinking in that amazing fragrance.

I remember how as we grew into teenagers, and our parents were slightly more affluent, we no longer had a clothesline outside. In some communities, it isn’t allowed. I remember also how my mother fought using her dryer, even though it was so much faster. She would tell us that she loved the way the clothes smelled, and we just said it was time for her to let go of these old ways. As kids, we were enamored of these new conveniences. We could now afford a dryer so our mom no longer needed to worry about the weather outside, and we as kids didn’t need to drop what we were doing to gather laundry when the summer afternoon thunder showers invariably rolled in.

And after all, if mom missed the scent, there were any number of dryer sheets on the market that offered all sorts of “mountain fresh fragrances”. As teens, we had little attention span for chores like laundry and cleaning. It’s only when those chores shift from being on our mother’s list to our own that we stop to remember the little details from our childhood. I was a newlywed bride folding my first batch of sheets when I felt a little tug of loss in my heart. I had a strong memory of myself helping my mother drape wet sheets on taught clothesline, pinning them with the wooden clothespins she kept in an old cardboard box.

Of course, it’s been many, many years since I’ve hung laundry outside on a clothesline. I live in a development that doesn’t allow it. And yet, driving past those homes today reminded me how much I missed laying in bed at night, sheets shining bright in the darkness falling asleep with the fragrance of the sun. A part of me would have liked to have gone back and helped bring in that laundry. Folding laundry outside on a warm spring day is a joyful meditation even if we sometimes have to run ahead of a thunderstorm.

Here we are in April, a time of water, of showers, sudden downpours and heavy, grey clouds sitting on a warming breeze. But it is also about the radiant sun. The Spring equinox is just a few days behind us, and nature is waking up, excited at the strengthening warmth. Make it a point this month during your daily walks, to notice the buds coming up from the earth. Look up at the sky and see how it has changed. Smell the breath of the wind and notice how different it is from the other seasons. Take it into yourself, inviting this beautiful season to gently nurture and push you up out of the ground, so that you, too, can feel the sun. Sprouts are tender, and yet, they somehow manage to break through the hard packed winter earth. Your sprouts are stronger than they seem. Believe in them.

Smile and say welcome Spring of my heart.