The good old days at home sweet home

On Monday my mother washed.
It was the way of the world,
all those lines of sheets flapping
in the narrow yards of the neighborhood,
the pulleys stretching out second
and third floor windows.

Down in the dank steamy basement,
wash tubs vast and grey, the wringer
sliding between the washer
and each tub. At least every
year she or I caught
a hand in it.

Tuesday my mother ironed.
One iron was the mangle.
She sat at it feeding in towels,
sheets, pillow cases.
The hand ironing began
with my father's underwear.

She ironed his shorts.
She ironed his socks.
She ironed his undershirts.
Then came the shirts,
a half hour to each, the starch
boiling on the stove.

I forgot bluing. I forgot
the props that held up the line
clattering down. I forgot
chasing the pigeons that shat
on her billowing housedresses.
I forgot clothespins in the teeth.

Tuesday my mother ironed my
father's underwear. Wednesday
she mended, darned socks on
a wooden egg. Shined shoes.
Thursday she scrubbed floors.
Put down newspapers to keep

them clean. Friday she
vacuumed, dusted, polished,
scraped, waxed, pummeled.
How did you become a feminist
interviewers always ask,
as if to say, when did this

rare virus attack your brain?
It could have been Sunday
when she washed the windows,
Thursday when she burned
the trash, bought groceries
hauling the heavy bags home.

It could have been any day
she did again and again what
time and dust obliterated
at once until stroke broke
her open. I think it was Tuesday
when she ironed my father's shorts.

by Marge Piercy

What I think about when I do yoga

I think about a cycle of things.

It starts: "God this is hard I hate warming up". I think of all the primary series ahead of me and the poses seem to stretch out to all of eternity.

Then I remember the story of the monk who is disturbed by a giant spider each night when he tries to meditate. He was advised to draw a big circle on the spider's belly so they might identify it during day time. He wakes during the day with the circle drawn on his own belly.

Then I think: "God this is still hard could I just stop after the sun salutations?"

Then I start to feel good:

1. This is just for me, not for anyone else. 
2. I feel so good doing this rather than thinking I should do this. 
3. It's good I'm no longer lying on a hospital bed recovering from a major surgery. It's good that I have the use of all my body parts with no aches and pains and no debilitating injuries. 
4. I should do this more. 

Then I think of nothing at all. No niggling anxiety of what remains undone. No comparing myself to others. No fear of my own failure. 

Mostly just concentrating on how to use every part of my body optimally. To relish, or at least, endure, the burn and the tingle and the pain. 

Then it's all over and I'm absolutely ravenously happy.