I love to iron my man's shirts, our underwear, and especially the tea towels. I can't help it. Even when I was a university student, fueled by righteous indignation, too much coffee, and too many cigarettes, I was a closet ironer. One day, after many glasses of red wine, I admitted my Sunday ironing ritual to my gaggle of girlfriends. They were appalled, unable to hide their disappointment in me.
Winter is the best time of year to iron.
I'm never happier than when my partner is cooking in the kitchen while I am ironing and, just as my mom did, spontaneously burst into song. The more I broaden my interpretation of what can be called a ritual, the more I find them, and find myself creating them in my life. Tending my garden is a ritual of connecting to the earth. Saying thanks before eating is a ritual of gratitude and honoring nature and my good fortune. My partner and I listen silently listen to each other speak, honoring each other's feelings.