I’m not sure why, but from the start of my home stay, aka social or physical distancing, I’ve been washing the dishes in the kitchen sink rather than using the dishwasher. It might be that washing, drying and then putting them away takes more time than loading, unloading and putting them away. Whatever the reason was that got me started, I’ve continued it.

There is something therapeutic about immersing your hands in warm, soapy water. In my case, it takes a while to get to the warm water. We have a tankless hot water system in this house and the kitchen sink must be the furthest from the boiler. I have timed it, it takes at least 45 seconds for the water to start to warm. Surprisingly, 45 seconds is a long time to wait. So I stand there, my hand under the tap, in the stream of water, waiting. When it gets warm enough, I put the stopper in the sink, squirt some dishwashing liquid and wait again. This time for the sink to fill. I don’t mind the waiting. It’s time to just be. Nothing to do, but wait. Then once the sink is full of warm soapy water, I start.

There is a large window over the sink, as there should be. Every sink should look out over a backyard, a front yard, a park – there should be some interesting view. My view is the backyard. Currently there is a lilac bush just starting to bloom. Over the course of my dishwashing experience, it has gone from bare branches to fully leafed with opening flowers. There are often little grey and black birds hopping in the grass, eating seeds or little bugs, I’m not sure which. Sometimes crows hop along the top of the brick wall. We recently planted grass and with the alternating periods of rain and then sun, I can almost see it growing.

I empty my mind as I empty the sink. My eyes drink in the sunlight playing on the leaves as they flutter gently in the wind. My left hand runs the dishcloth over the plate I hold in my right hand. Then I drop the dishcloth and turn on the tap to rinse it. With both hands I turn the plate, rinsing away all the suds, checking to make sure it’s fully clean. With my left hand I turn the tap off, and reach back into the sink for the dishcloth. My right hand finds the next dish. My hands move almost without intention from me. A domestic ballet, performed for generations. Last to be done are the utensils at the bottom of the sink, gathered up and wiped in bunches, placed between the dishes and side of the sink.

When one sink is empty and the other filled, I do a check around the kitchen for strays. I drain the water. Again, I stand and wait. Then I use the dishcloth to wipe the sink clean, often pulling the bottom of the faucet down to spray it around the sink. I rinse the dishcloth, wring it out and place it on the divider between the sinks. Often I walk away at this point. It’s easier to dry the dishes when they’ve had a chance to do so on their own. Later, sometimes only minutes but often hours later, I wipe them and put them away.

I do this two, sometimes three, times a day. It centres me. And even though it is an activity I do without much thought, I am paradoxically in the moment. I am aware of the warm soapy water followed by the cooler rinsing flow. My eyes move from lilac bush to the grass, trying to count how many little birds are pecking there. Nothing else matters, just these dishes in the sink and the view out the window. The common, reliable, mundane in a time that is anything but.