Were Sisyphus told to stand in front of a dishwashing sink at a communal home and keep it spotless he would have been sentenced by Pluto to no less a task than his interminable rock rolling. I have lived communally thirteen years and have found few parameters more telling of the harmony in a group home than the process by which dishes are cleaned. Dishes, like molds, pop up everywhere, growing in quantity until they stick out — the scourge of the household.
However, it’s time dishwashing was elevated to its proper place as one of the great celebrations of life — the kiss of love to the chef who gave birth to the sumptuous feast just consumed. In our home an unwritten rule — if you don’t cook you clean up — has worked very well. What a thrill to stand before encrusted wastage and in a few moments wave the wand of spotlessness, preparing for another culinary delight. Yes, I’m talking about fighting your way to the sink to serve with verve. In this arena of dynamic exercise can come the flood of one’s favorite music, a pleasant conversation, or deep meditation, capped by the crown of task completion gratification. I must confess I love to wash dishes, and I encourage its promotion from the mundane to the sublime.
