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Stay present as you press

You want ironin’? Ask Norma Rae. I’m terrible at it, even though I learned from an ironing guru, my grandmother Sophie Pottok. With hands made strong by years in the millinery trade, she would power-iron my father’s shirts, slamming the iron down like a boss while keeping the fabric stretched taught with her free hand. “You have to press hard,” she told me as I watched her work.  

Sophie turned a chore into an art form as she glided, wiggled, and punched iron to fabric. The iron was her paint brush, the board her canvas. I loved to watch as she expertly turned a shirt this way and that with a flourish to better nudge the iron tip into hard-to-reach places. “Don’t forget to use the whole board,” she would remind me as she eased a shirt sleeve over the tapered edge to press the shoulder clean and crisp.

Besides doing most of our family’s ironing, Sophie kept busy at her basement worktable while my sister and I grew up, mending and hemming; sewing curtains and Halloween costumes; embroidering dresser scarves, pillows, and guest towels; and crafting Christmas decorations out of felt that she embellished with sequins and fancy stitches. 

Sometimes Sophie would reminisce about her job at Loeser’s, a luxury Brooklyn department store founded in the late 19th century. At Loeser’s, Sophie copied designer hats that were brought back from Paris by the store’s buyer. She spoke lovingly of those hats, their fine details and their beauty, and I could tell that Sophie would have loved to go to Paris, too.

I never had my grandmother’s skill, didn’t cultivate the patience to iron a perfect button placket. And I never, ever pressed hard enough.

Sophie’s creations are in my home and on my tree at Christmastime, but others recently resurfaced, polishing faded memories to chrome. I was packing my parents’ belongings for their move to assisted living, and during the purge, forgotten treasures emerged, closet-buried, wrinkled, and stained. There was an old favorite of mine, a white linen dresser scarf embroidered at each end with a dainty lady holding a parasol. And pieces that I didn’t recognize, including a plain pink dresser scarf that Sophie appliquéd with a smaller, fancier one, probably to make it look prettier.

Once my parents were settled, I washed batches of dresser scarves, doilies, and curtains. But the iron loomed. I hadn’t ironed in a couple of years, and dreaded it. I procrastinated (won’t the hot iron damage the old fabrics?) and almost talked myself out of the task (I’ll do a lousy job anyway). Reluctantly, I dragged the ironing board from the bedroom closet and filled the iron with water.

I didn’t get off to a good start. I fumbled to get the board up and set to the right height, and nearly sprayed starch into my eye. But after I struggled through the warmup, the practice became smooth—and surprisingly familiar—as if I’d just stepped onto my yoga mat. 

This wasn’t ironing as I remembered it. My hands were stronger, more capable. From determination? From years of yoga practice? From years of opening jars of tomato sauce? Maybe all of the above, I don’t know. But I never ironed like this in my life. I was mindful, content, rooted in the moment, enjoying it even. 

And, for the first time, I pressed hard enough. I crashed iron to board—smash!—as if banging a gong. In concert, the steaming iron made its own music, hissing the heated breath of ujjayi. 

Did Sophie’s spirit guide me that day? Was it the childhood memories that drove me? Or have I just grown up, and now better understand that no matter how sweet the memories, the best place to be is in the present, where we can find both peace and strength.

Over the past month, our human family has watched a family of robins grow, beginning mid-May with a mated pair building a nest on a support beam beneath our deck. From
stolen peaks at the birds’ precious blue eggs (Mike peered down between the floor boards to see them) to the first appearance of a pointy, gaping beak eager for food, we observed the birds whenever we could. It was a privilege, really, to see their story unfold.

As their four nestlings grew, mom and dad robin tolerated my presence near their nest (I babysat while they hunted for worms), occasionally accepting offers of chopped blueberries. One week we could barely see the nestlings’ heads pop up for feedings (it took us a while to count all four); the next week the baby birds had grown so much that they were jostling for nest space. Two were noticeably larger than their siblings. I half-dreaded the soon-to-come empty nest. 

By early Sunday morning, one of the larger fledglings had gone. The two smaller ones were still in the nest, and the fourth fledgling was perched on the cap rail of our deck, reluctant to move. Mom chirped at him from a branch overhead. I imagined her encouraging him, coaxing him, telling him the world awaited. A few times I saw her land next to him. He would open his beak, eager to receive food, but she didn’t make a deposit. She would linger beside him for a few companionable moments, then duck under the deck to feed the littler ones.

Later, I went outside to offer deck robin some verbal encouragement. He ignored me.  As the youngster surveyed the world around him, I considered my own reluctance to leave the safety nests of my life. Home, jobs, daily routines, repetitive behaviors: these are the nests that human lives are made of. I don’t make changes easily, often retreating into familiar, and not always beneficial, comfort zones. Silly human, who am I to coax a robin to fly off my deck, when I am still afraid to drive on highways and perform handstands?

Late in the afternoon, deck robin flew, gracelessly and noisily, up to a tree branch. Within ten minutes, the two remaining babies left the nest as well, one after the other, struggling to stay aloft and awkwardly landing in our yard. Both hopped off into hedges, peeping frantically all the way.

How do we fly? By growing up, making hard decisions, taking chances, falling in love? Running in marathons, riding roller coasters, going upside down?

If a baby bird can fly, so can I. Sometimes gracelessly, peeping frantically all the way.