Tonight I ironed. It started simply, a skirt I bought during the thriftstore bonanza on Saturday had gotten washed and needed to be ironed before it could be worn. I set up the ancient but sturdy ironing board in the living room, and plugged in the slightly less aged Black and Decker iron. I watched the hot, steamy surface slide across the black linen. Like magic, fabric that had seconds before been puckered and creased, revealed itself to be smooth and rumple-free. I found this simple action to be so soothing that I went to the closet to search out other items that would be equally satisfying to run under the iron and transform. As I slowly and methodically pressed another skirt–turn, straighten, smooth, turn–I felt like I was being turned, straightened and smoothed by psychic iron, one that could seek out the crinkles and puckers in my heart and mind, leading me back to a neutral state.
I see more ironing in my future.