Life gets busy. It just does.
How is it that, in the middle of hurry and scurry, a simple thing like gliding a hot iron rhythmically across a white cotton dinner napkin can seem so soothing? I don't know, but it does, somehow. And, when you can sneak a few minutes away with the iron, a pile of kitchen linens, and the evening sun, it can even feel a little indulgent.
The only thing that was missing for me as I began my ironing the other day, was a tall glass of Pepsi on ice to sip as I ironed. Not that I'm a fan of Pepsi, really. I don't even drink it often. Actually, now that I really think about it, I'm not sure when the last time was that its sweet, cola flavor fizzed across my tongue. But, standing there with my ironing at hand, I remembered another time when I was learning to find the value in simple things.
I was a young girl, standing at my mother's ironing board with a pile of ironing beside me that seemed to be much bigger than, I'm sure, it actually was. It certainly seemed much bigger than me. And it seemed to be growing. With every shirt I finished, I was sure another one jumped on the pile.
Seeing how I was becoming lost in my mountain of wrinkles, my mom gave me a way out. No, she didn't let me quit. She loved me too much to do that. Instead, she began to tell me of the mountains of laundry she would have to iron as a girl in a household of two parents and fourteen children, and what she got to do, sometimes, to help her over the grade.
She'd sip a Pepsi on ice while she glided the hot iron back and forth, white steam clouds rolling up in front of her and the water-spritzed cotton sizzling under the heat.
I wasn't the only one who'd climbed this mountain, I realized. And, how about this? We just happened to have a Pepsi in our refrigerator that day. (Not a usual thing in our house.)
Soon, I was back at my station, smoothing out wrinkles with the hot iron, the happy sound of ice cubes clinking against my glass as I sipped my Pepsi.
I didn't get a Pepsi every time it was my turn to iron. In fact, that may have been the only time. But, once was enough. Mom had identified with me in my plight, and had thrown me a rope. Instead of ironing remaining a chore, I had found the pleasure in it.
It was the beginning of finding value in simple things.
