Last Thanksgiving, the Little Woman had a bit of a meltdown. She was processing a lot from the recent trip to India and generally feeling a bit overwhelmed by some new things she'd taken on, in addition to a plateful of existing responsibilities. So she said to the Little Man: "Little Man, I need some help. Can you take over doing your personal laundry?". Okay, so maybe at the time, she did not exactly say this as calmly as the construction of that last sentence may lead you to believe, but that's the gist of it. The Little Man was initially horrified. Stricken, crestfallen, resigned, and lastly, doggedly determined looks, trafficked across his face. Whereafter, somewhat wounded and a tad miffed, but expressing boisterous confidence that he could reconnect with his resilient bachelor self, he agreed. Fast forward to the present time and what we have here is an Official Situation. This is what it looks like:
All in all, things are going rather well, wouldn't you say? He gets to engage his creative engineering side, seeing how tall he can build before it all falls over. He also gets a (cheap) thrill, as he edges toward the precipice of No Clean Clothes Left To Wear Today. And as if these were already not enough bennies, I get free therapy out of the deal. Because every time I walk by this Leaning Tower of Man's Indignity, I have to breathe deeply, oh so deeply, and say "Not my circus, not my monkey". It's great. Really. All women with laundry OCD need to explore this hair-of-the-dog approach: kill the obsession to stay on top of the washing by watching your Hubs' washing balance on top of itself. I don't want to give you the impression that this is all so difficult for me. There are some delicious moments of such mirth...such as his serious consideration of whether or not three days straight of wearing the same sweater (over a clean shirt of course---c'mon he lives with ME) will be noticed by the general public. Or the alarm on his face (and mine!) when last night, he overloaded the machine and it started making a racket of banging, clanking, moaning, groaning noises. [What the neighbours may have thought, I couldn't say. Well, I could, but some kids might read this :-) ]. Life is truly wonderful. And marriage is truly a yoga in itself. I would not trade any of it for a perpetually empty (laundry) basket. Well, not usually.
I am a field of awareness. Any thing beyond that is identification with form...