delicates.

A week ago, I sat in the laundromat, trying to focus on Annie Dillard, but was distracted: by the hum of the machines, by the ranting of the owner in a language that I do not know, and by the dull, happy buzzing in my mind resulting from talking to a good friend for the first time in a while.

As I watched my clothes spin, the machine shook violently, and I thought of how careful I had been in getting my clothes into the washer. I made sure that my laundry bag didn't touch the ground on the way to the shop, even though the bag was heavy and the clothes already dirty. I made sure that each shirt and sock was right-side-out and gently tossed, fairly flat, into the front-loading bowl. Here they were now: being tossed and shaken and vibrated into some sort of cleanliness.

I couldn't help but wonder why I had taken so much time to make sure that everything seemed perfect. I wanted every detail to be right; it made me feel together: whole. With my clothes washed right-side-out, I won't have to worry about them stretching were I to wait to turn them later. Why does it matter? Why treat things so gently? The funny part, to me, was that even though we can take care of our "stuff" as good as possible, when we send it to the outside world, it's thrown about like a snowball--picking up dirt and other things that stick before being tossed to blend with the whole: smashed into an unrecognizable collage of what used to be individual.

I thought about other items that we do this with: luggage, mail. These items that we pack so carefully, ensuring every detail is correct, double-checking that we didn't forget anything.

Mail--Stamp? check. Contents? check. Return address? check.
Luggage--Shampoo? check. Toothbrush? check. Clean underwear? check.

It goes on in this pattern, even though these things are just going to find their way into a pile somewhere after being thrown around and smashed about. I began to wonder if the delicate care even mattered; what if I just threw my clothes into a ball and tossed them in the washer. Wouldn't they still come out clean?

I took a step back and thought about it again. Sure, the clothes would be clean, but not as good as when  well cared-for. Then I realized that, maybe it wasn't the things that I was focusing on--I mean, sure, my disgust in how particular I am about worldly items spurred these thoughts, but I soon recognized myself in the washer rotations.

Here I am: out in the world on my own. Sure, it's been rough with graduate school not quite working out how I thought and having difficulty finding a job, but I'm still in one piece. Why? Because I was well-prepared. Because my parents took the time and the energy to make sure that I was right-side-out--a good education, a diploma under my belt, and a solid family upbringing--before tossing me into the machinations of a new city and a great, big world.

And just as the washer sent my clothes out beaten but clean, I hope that the world makes kind enough to do the same for all of us--children nurtured and sent into the dirty hands of the world, but with enough strength and capability to come out better than before, just as the mail and the luggage comes through the other side and into the right hands.

As a final note, I think it will; sometimes, the washer needs to run just a little longer; sometimes, there are some delays in the post; sometimes, the luggage gets a little lost on the conveyor belt, but eventually, it arrives. I've learned that well the past few weeks, and luckily, this wash cycle is up for a while: I got a job!