My mother took in ironing. Just being born, of course I didn’t have the words for it, or any words at all, but I think I knew. I could feel it, the warmth. Not the heat from the iron, nor the steam, but the balm of service done with grace.
It wasn’t humility. She wasn’t lowering herself. She loved clothes. She needed the money. She tested the quality of the fabric between thumb and forefinger. She knew how it would behave. How to make the collar and cuffs respond, not with rigidity, but a wantful desire to frame a face, release a hand. When finished, she didn’t just exchange it for cash, she showed them how to wear it — not as a mannequin, but a woman with style unpurchased. And they knew it. That’s why they came back. They could have gone to the local dry cleaner on Broadway, but they returned to my mother, in the white house, near the end of Van Dyke Road.
I watched her years later, doing it for herself, and I could still feel the hands that cupped the back of my head, marveling at the warmth against my resting spine. My mother took in ironing, and ever returned it with grace.
I have a friend who loves feathers. Until I learned this about her, I didn’t see them. Now, in our yard, on the trail, in a different country, I see them everywhere. And what’s most surprising, I suppose, is that I am a bird lover. I listen for them. Look for them. Study them. Paint them. How did I not see the random feathers? Now, I not only see them, I begin to think of how the feather came to be in our pool. On our back stairs. Was there a squabble? A falling out? (no pun intended) And I smile as the words come so rapidly for a new story. And this is the true gift she gives to me.
Empathy — Maybe if we saw it for what it truly is, we would give it more readily. It’s like we think we’re losing something if we take a minute to see the world through someone else’s eyes, but oh, we have so much to gain.
My friend loves feathers and birds. Now I love birds and feathers.
I ask myself today, what is it you see that I’m not seeing? Maybe we could all ask that of ourselves, as we make our way under the birdsong.
