I’m ironing again.
Almost exactly a year ago, when feeling kind of overwhelmed, sort of stressed, I wrote about how ironing helps me chill out.
And, this week, I find myself ironing again, for the same therapeutic reasons.
I had what was, for me, a full and hectic week last week. A number of you suggested I needed to get back to making and creating and crafting, as a way to return to bliss.
I think you’re right . . . next week. But this week, even thinking about making something seems too much.
And, so, I found my iron, the one from the garage sale that gets really hot and has no steam function at all.
I found the big spray bottle, the one I sometimes use to stop naughty cats in their tracks.
I set up my ridiculously expensive ironing board, the one I treated myself to. I tell myself I’m worth it.
I dug in the pile of clean but mussy linens, and I found ones that make me smile. First, a set of heavy, lush damask napkins that make me think of being pampered. 
Next, another set of damask napkins, with a pale pink stripe—they press up beautifully and say “garden party” to me. 
Then, for fun, some jazzy, mid-century dishtowels.
There are linens in my piles that speak to any mood, any need.
Slowly, methodically, I iron. The heat and steam are blown away by a breeze coming in off the lake.
The pile of crumpled, disordered, hectic fabrics shrinks.
The stack of beautiful, orderly, crisp linens grows.
To paraphrase the old saying, “Sometimes I irons and thinks and sometimes I just irons.”
This week, I’m focusing on just ironing. Thinking can wait.
