On the Washing of The Hands
I contemplated soap and water as I stood there, the warm liquid cleansing, the faint scent of clean permeating the small space.
Such a common, many times a day practice.
We bought some new soap yesterday. SoftSoap's shea butter in liquid form. The scent always takes me a a cottage in BC- I can feel the cold tiles on my feet, the seashell decorations, the brightly painted shower tiles every time I use this soap, regardless of where I am.
So, when I was there, standing in the soap aisle, I knew what soap I wanted to buy.
So many choices. Exfoilating. Moisturizing. Deep-Cleansing. Gentle on Skin. Scented. Unscented.
My all time favorite soap is unashamedly the soap my sister makes. I love it. I am a long ways from my sister right now. I don't love that. Using the soap that she has made with her hands to cleanse my hands just feels so right.
She sells it and we use the scraps in our soap dish. Her soap always brings a calm, gentle, all is right with the world feeling. The same feeling I get when I am around her. She has always been my anchor. I asked my photographer-husband to take the above picture when we were in Taiwan last year. Baskets of home-made soap. It reminded me of my sister and her soap.
There was soap here when we arrived. Irish Spring. A name that I have always felt was so undeserving of that soap. Irish Spring conjures up images of verdant meadows, wild ponies, freshly-picked wildflowers, tea and scones outside. The chaps who name the soap got it all wrong.
And so I will wash my hands. Many times a day. Breathe in the soft smell of shea butter, cleanse my hands and remember so many happy times in that little cottage.
It's all about embracing the moments. Because that is what life is made up of.