‘Oh, let there be nothing on earth but laundry’. Richard Wilbur
The before and after of laundry. The way it starts off soiled and can shift.
It can stink, filthy, battleship grey, red rust blood spots, the stains of spilled food,
The dribbles of a baby, the toothpaste smudge of an overused towel.
Oh, let here be nothing on earth but laundry.
The agitation in the cylinder making peace with soap suds,
The soft water by osmosis gripping each fibre, taking away the load of life’s grime.
Oh, let there be nothing on earth but laundry.
The final rinse, a Baptism.
The water as clear and crystal as a stream. All dirt washed away.
The load heaved from the machine ready for its journey to the clothesline.
Oh, let there be nothing on earth but laundry.
Flapping in the wind, sails on a yacht, flap and sway and through the turbulence of this storm come new beginnings.
The smell of a newborn baby’s head. The smell of a new day. The earth on a hot day after rain. Its petrichor.
Oh, let there be nothing on earth but laundry.
Let us rejoice in the universal labour that comes from our efforts, not only as women, not only as children, not only as men and boys, but all of us, take up our load of soiled laundry like Lazarus rising.
The Saturday night bed with fresh sheets and pillow slips, the cleanest sleep of the week.
The luxury of life in readiness for death. And when we die, may our tired worn bodies be wrapped in the white shroud of a life lived well and carried by our loved ones to some place quiet where fibres, tooth, hair and bones, can sink, turning back into laundry.
Reading Szubansky’s memoir, Reckoning, so many resonances emerge from my childhood.
Magda spent her adolescence in Croydon while I spent mine in Cheltenham, And although her parents sent her to Sienna in Camberwell and mine to Vaucluse in Richmond, there were similarities. Catholic Convents for girls, for starters.
Magda is younger than me by a decade, I reason, and yet our lives cross. Every time in the book she makes a trip to the Camberwell Junction, my heart sings. That’s one of the lovely things about reading, the way it can jog your memories for similarities and even for differences.
I remember the era of the sharpies, as Magda describes their hell-bent reign of terror, but I never encountered any sharpies except to look at on trains or the street. Magda tried to become one, but the point at which I resonate most is when she describes falling in love with Sister Agnes, a nun who took to issuing her charges work the while their heads were bent and she took to staring, the thousand yard stare.
Young Magda, whose burgeoning lesbianism was only then awakening, stared at the nun. Sister Agnes seemed sad – left the convent sometime later – at the time Magda surmises to marry. While my favourite nun left the convent, too, and she entered a relationship with a woman who someone told me was one of the Crowe girls though I shall never know and many of the Crowe girls became nuns.
Magda, like me wondered about the nuns and why they chose this life. Their marriage to Jesus. He was such a bigamist if he endorsed all these marriages, but no one ever said as much. It was okay in my day to be married to Jesus, even to wear ‘his’ ring on the correct ring finger.
I did not suffer the agony of recognising I was gay, not like Magda, but other agonies of adolescence followed me around, as they do for most young people.
The torture of searching for and never quite finding your identity. And Magda’s father, a man obsessed with tennis and sport to exorcize what his daughter describes as his killing muscle, his extreme competitiveness, to kill or be killed given his formative experiences during the Second World War, as a young assassin appointed by the resistance in Poland to deal with those who were collaborating with the Nazis.
What a man. Different from my father but both tormented by the wrath of war. As others like Ruth Clare who writes about her experience as daughter of a Vietnam Military Veteran were as detailed in her memoir, Enemy. These men, especially Ruth’s father who were cruel beyond measure because of war trauma. It wrecks families, some more so than others.
I understand today Magda is suffering a rare form of cancer that sounds likely to be fatal and it saddens me to think this bright light in our world, the woman who played …in Babe, the story of a pig, should leave us soon, or maybe not. Magda’s father had cancer, too, and he survived for over five years after diagnosis and was ultimately considered cured. The same might happen for her.
This morning in my dreams I have flickers of memory many people in my dream had cancer. And I feared it might be a sign,
When I was a child the advertisement on television with their Grim Reaper words, ‘A lump or thickening in the breast or elsewhere could be an early sign…. And the thoughts of this monster crawling under your skin, a lumpy presence that like a tick or ring worm or lice might burrow away, spreading its malevolence, haunted me day and night.
At one time, I could not sleep for any twitch in my stomach which left me convinced I had cancer of the stomach. Even as our mother insists our lot enjoy high levels of immunity. From where I do not know, but it should preserve us all. Even as her mother in her 69th year developed stomach cancer, during her trip to Australia.
When she returned to Holland after a year away helping my mother with her little ones, including me and my younger sister, she went to the doctor. It was too late. She died not long after.
A memory stays with me. My mother at the telephone which was cradled on a wall stand on the wall of the log cabin house in which we lived. In tears. She had just received news of her mother’s death and could not even afford to go to the funeral. No one expected it of her. Such pain. To miss out on the level of closure a funeral offers. Ceremonies designed around the concept of self-care. Of allowing ourselves to grieve and not bypass the necessity of acknowledging our loss. Otherwise, the loss, like cancer, eats away at us and won’t let go.
