The Way Gray Changes Me

My approach to laundry has changed quite a bit since I left Florida.

Mostly it’s because I had a lot of free time in Florida. So even though I had my own dryer in my own house, I used to hang all my clothes on the line to dry because I liked to.

Picture warm, dry, Florida breezes, grassy fields, cotton sun dresses—there was a certain romance about the whole thing. I took pleasure in hauling my basket of wet clothes out to the yard and pinning them up on the line. And in the crispness of sun dried cotton sheets.

Now I fit loads in when I can, air dry only the things that would be ruined by the dryer, and generally approach the task of laundry as something that needs to get done.

This weekend, I dyed my own fabric a yummy, mottled gray.  And for the first time since I moved away from Florida, I longed for that romantic laundry experience. I was so pleased with the whole process of soaking and stirring and mixing, and even more pleased with how the fabric came out when I was finished, that I wanted to give it the love of hanging it in the warm breeze to dry.

I didn’t, mind you. I threw it in the dryer like I did my gym clothes and my jeans. But I thought about it.

I am starting a sewing project that will be a rainbow of warm grays. Warm grays that I am attempting to make myself. It’s made me think about all the things I love that are gray—to eat, to look at, to be around.

Here are a few:

• Trout
• Gray salt
• Squid ink risotto
• Soba noodles
• The concrete wall in my back patio
• My Ann Piper painting
• Campfire smoke