The Hidden Upside of Ironing
What I've learnt from doing something I never wanted to do.
Up until this past winter, I never really ironed in my life.
A few reasons: I never had a job that demanded freshly ironed shirts; most of my clothes were t-shirts so I'd just shake them out; and, most importantly, because I couldn't see ironing as anything other than a huge waste of time.
It reminded me of my mother forever ironing clothes in front of her favorite TV show—The Weakest Link—flanked by two full laundry baskets.
I remember how she'd iron clothes after clothes, the majority of which were not her own. It looked like an endless toil in which I never really saw the point.
Yet I now see it a little more nuanced than that.
Ironing out time.
Ironing forces a change of pace in a life overflowing with information.
Standing at the ironing board for a significant amount of time demands a change in expectations. You can no longer multitask, you can no longer seek out an easy dopamine hit.
All you have is what is in front of you—a piece of textile and a hot iron.
In this way, it becomes a meditative experience. It demands an applied focus that keeps the mind engaged without overstimulating it.
Ironing becomes about slowing down, a tactile experience that brings you into the present moment.
A world connected by a thread.
The effect of slowing down is an increased capacity to observe.
Over time, I’ve gotten acquainted with the clothes I iron in a way I didn't before. I get to observe their shape, the coarseness of the fabric, the quality of the threading.
I think about how this piece of clothing has ended up on the board in front of me.
Where did it come from?
Who participated in making it?
The person who cultivated the cotton, the designer, the factory worker, the freight person, the whole-seller, the marketer, the shop assistant, the person who bought it and the one who wears it, are all connected by its thread.
And its story continues to unfold on my ironing board. I notice when a stain appears and I notice when a rip occurs.
Through the clothing, I notice the passing of time.
The warmest gift.
As the days go by, my oldest child outgrows her clothes.
These eventually become hand-me-downs that my youngest now wears. And so these simple pieces of textile remind me of the layers of memories that they hold.
By ironing them, I give thanks for keeping the people I love warm and protected. And I realize how blind I’ve been to their gifts.
The simplest things have a bigger story to tell, if only we stop long enough to consider it.
One laundry basket at a time.
Ironing as mindfulness - makes sense. Washing the dishes can be similar. I will try this next time I am ironing, which is pretty infrequent though! Thanks for sharing, I just subscribed.