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Or the metaphorical a*muse*ment of a magnificent Muskoka May 24 weekend…
I ironed today. Now for some this isn’t monumental but for me it is – my partner is still reeling from the shock. I don’t even like doing laundry. I view it as a necessary evil or an excuse to shop for more – clean – clothes: But ironing, my heavens, what an exercise in futility.
Today, though, I did something different. I took my ironing board outside and onto the back porch. There, among the sunshine filtering through the leaves and a heavenly choir of birdsong, I attacked the wrinkled fabric of my closet and eventually my mind.
It was very calming and meditative. Slow strokes of gentle warmth erasing bumps and fissures, softening hardened cottons, smoothing soft silk, creating crisp clean lines; restoring life into the crumpled and forgotten.
Every now and then I would be startled from my reverie by a rustle in the leaves, my mind and body would tense due to the recent visitation of the bear in the driveway. I know I should make noise, bang about or sing, but I can not bring myself to disturb the harmony of the birds with my tone deaf song.
So, I watch and find that the rustle is not from something big and dangerous but something small and innocuous and I meditate on that particular metaphor. The majority of fears are just that, wind rustling leaves, and a wrinkle is flattened from my mind.
I was so enthralled by this meditative balm that I searched for things to iron. I contemplated ironing the jeans but quickly realized the pit fall of setting that precedent. At which point I acknowledged that as with all things, moderation is essential, and over meditating is not a good thing.
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end. I have done little these past days but muck about in the garden, watch the pond and smile as the family of Canadian geese parade across the glistening water. I’ve sat mesmerized by the tangerine breast of a song bird and been bemused by the grace of the bumble bee. 
