Laundry Day: A Meditation

A lonely, rusting washing machine rests in our cinderblock carport. After feeding it the prescribed amount of overly sweet-smelling detergent, I pull the start knob and it lurches to life. I lift the lid to confirm that water is slowly trickling into the tub. I am transfixed for a moment, wondering how long it will take to wash a load of clothes at this pace. Then I remember that a watched washer does not clean. I close the lid and walk away, dubious.

Ten minutes later, I realize I haven't heard much from the lonely Maytag. I return to the carport and tentatively lift the lid to discover that the clothes are damp, but there is otherwise no sign of life from the machine. 

"I'm not sure this thing works," I say to Greg.

He peers into the tub and suggests I be patient and remain positive. 

I return thirty minutes later to discover that the clothes are still soaking in the rinse cycle. As it turns out, the lonely washer requires prompting. I move the dial to "spin" and it begins to chug and churn. I smile, feeling a kinship. Like me, the lonely washer requires collaboration and encouragement.  

When the washing machine falls quiet again, I return to the carport to discover that the clothes have indeed been spun. Now for the fun part: Drying.

Our "dryer" is behind the house. Blue cord runs between a tree and the fence posts that help keep the free-range cattle out of our yard. We quickly fill the line and Greg retrieves more cord from his tool box and strings up two more lines. Later that day, he returns from the local tienda with a package of brightly colored clothes pins.

"Happy Birthday, baby!" he says. I will be 59 tomorrow and have come full circle. 

I'm hanging laundry on a clothes line again. Living in a house that doesn't have HVAC. Pulling the screen door shut "just so" to keep the flies out. Driving the dirt roads into town to visit friends and buy groceries — and being awakened to the sound of a cow bell as Bossy grazes outside our bedroom window. 

When I was a teenager, I longed to leave the rural world of my parents' home on the outskirts of Little Rock. Funny that today, the boy (now a 59 year old man) who I met back then has brought me back to the country – although it is a different country. We are living in a small fishing village turned kiteboarding mecca, 45 minutes from La Paz on the Sea of Cortez. Although we have fairly consistent WIFI and mobile phone service, I have been dropped into a much simpler world that requires planning, effort, and intention not required where we live in the US. And I love it. 

There is something completely gratifying about having a very limited selection to choose from at the tienda. There is one brand of yogurt — not 25. The produce is only what is in season and readily available — rather than being shipped in daily from around the world. There are no big-box super, mega chain stores — and Amazon does not deliver here.

Our rental house is constructed almost entirely of concrete — and skillfully so. The two cupolas that ornament the architecture are feats of manual engineering genius and create natural air conditioning as heat rises through their domes. There are no closets for storage, thereby encouraging a limited wardrobe. The kitchen is modern, open and generous in size, but outfitted with only the basics: a range and refrigerator, a few pots and pans, random utensils, four plates, four glasses, a set of flatware for four. At first, this is vexing, but we adapt and find a sense of true satisfaction in "making do." 

Our home comes complete with solar-powered dryer..

I'm not sure if this is how my mother felt when she first set foot in the home my father bought in 1952 for $11,000 on Highway 10 on the outskirts of Little Rock. And yet, she did make do. Making do was just a part of life for my parents. They grew up during the Great Depression and never quite left it behind. 

It used to irritate me that my Mom reused bread bags instead of buying sparkling new Ziplocks. Or that she kept using the frying pan with the broken handle rather than buy a new one. "It's perfectly good!" she would say. And she was right. 

I wanted to toss out the chipped plates and mix-matched cups into the garbage, never considering those discarded items would end up in a landfill. I couldn't understand why my mother didn't buy a new vegetable peeler when the handle fell off of the old one. Now I realize that she kept it —even though it pinched her fingers when she peeled potatoes—because,"It still worked." 

Back then, I longed for the luxury of a disposable world. Now, I see the beauty in my mother's conservation. 

As I retrieve the sun-warmed, crisp, clean-smelling clothes from the line, I am grateful for the wisdom they imparted. Yes, I'm a slow learner, but I'm so very grateful to be here now.

Living in the desert takes more intention and resourcefulness. A truck comes once a month to fill our water and propane tanks. We turn out lights before leaving the room because resources are not as plentiful here. We don't leave the water running when we brush our teeth or wash the dishes. We try to not be wasteful. It's a lesson my parents taught me more than half a century ago.  

Despite the limitation, here in Mexico, we have everything we need —and more. We are embracing this much simpler lifestyle. And I'm sure somewhere in heaven, my Mother is grinning. (She was never one to say, "I told you so.")