Lisa Horton Zimmerman | Issue 190">
I’ve logged more experience than most with simplicity and the complexity you discover inside simplicity, minimalism and asocial behavior, endurance and landscape.
Here is the truth: I think some deep wisdom inside me (a) sensed the stress, (b) was terrified for me, and (c) gave me something new and hard to focus on in order to prevent me from lapsing into a despair coma — and also to keep me from having a jelly jar of wine in my hand.
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On the best days I offer this invisible work, this work so easily undone. So when the memory of sleep is smoothed from beds, when breakfast bowls return to their cupboard I begin the litany of laundry, sadly astonished to see again the hill of clothes slumped in the wicker basket, all their pride gone, their lives inhabiting other garments. And if it’s a good day I lovingly sort dark socks and wadded trousers from the baby’s white t-shirts and his sisters’ pastels. Into the vessel, faithful as a truck, they go, to churn and swirl in their mysterious froth making shapes I cannot see. And after the dryer revives each wet skin I sit and fold these clothes into safety, health, laughter, home.
Lisa Zimmerman