In Praise of Ironing

Blow on those wrinkles like the wind breathes on the tall red trees, delicate and eager, back and forth, delighted in whirrs, whoosh it out. This is your life you’re dressing.

And it’s like sewing, where the material vanishes, becomes an image, a vestige of my mother’s sweat, a map well-worn and hue-free fading summers. Heat—it helps it all. There’s no craft without wear and tear, no art without a palette and battle checks.

To smooth out each ripple, fold in the past, smooth out for light, so that you can see. Do not forget the ritual; it can breathe as you do from the deep ocean before you—soar. Each grain a new direction, each wrinkle a reality in your touch.

This is where life calls out for your hands, your soul felt below each vibrant, lively fold, a pure pulse, ready to unearth every mundane seam,
so tenderly—drifting like waves.

• Mary Oliver