Sitting at the Ironing

Written and read for you by Muriel Murch with WSM by my side

The laundry is piled on the bed. There is masses of it, left over from before we went away, and now more has been added as we returned. It is washed, wrinkled and overflowing. There is no room for napping. While pawing through it, socks and undies get folded but the rest remains waiting for their warming turn under the iron. Not everyone irons today – but I do. As I pull out the ironing board and turn on the iron I look at the pile and believe it looks back at me. Where and how to start? I reach for the first pair of shorts – yes, even those get a once over lightly – and sigh.

The consternation of choosing where to start matches the full grey rain-cloud that is overwhelming my mind with thoughts of the desecration of Gaza, the bombs lobed between Russian and the Ukraine, the wars all over the world, the breakdown of medical services and the frightful, terrible behaviour of those in power in the United States of America and beyond. I don’t know where to turn or what to think as I sit here ironing. What can I do?

There are sweaters needing a soft touch, shirts and pajamas, pillowcases and tea towels, before the trousers pressed with a heavier hand. But as I work through the piles, I slow down. I can read and I can write, can’t I? And I can reach out to other sisters who write.

Harvesting History While Farming the Flats at the art show celebrating the 60th anniversary of the Palomarin Field Station of Point Blue Conservation Science. Thank you.

Substack has given us all a new platform where we can search out and find like-minded writers and readers.  I realize the writers I read are almost all women, who are tackling their own version of the piles of unwashed laundry that are littering our world. I start with some Sisters from Sybilline Press that publishes the brilliant work of women authors over 50. And among that brilliance there are some pretty passionate writers who speak out on the particular messes left on our doorsteps. Each one finds their own way to take on the stale loaves of bread that are the detritus of manic males and smash them open into crumbs on the worn wooden table of our lives. An analogy – I think lifted from that Creative Loudmouth Lorraine Devon Wilke.

I’m not sure I’m making any sense. But as I iron, just thinking about these women, calms me. Each one of them – metaphorically – has reached for a pile, of silks, cottons or linen to examine and expose the wrinkles and we each iron the creases.

Julia Park Tracey with her Book and Bone (@juliaparktracey) has written about waiting for her father to die. She wonders if she can forgive him his parenting, and how much do those thoughts render her a bad person – and one asks – in whose eyes? That’s a big scab to peel off of your life’s history. But how bravely she does it, and what courage she ladles out to her readers.

Lorraine Devon Wilke with her Musings of a Creative Loud Mouth (@lorrainedevonwilke) gets so mad, each and every time the OrangeOne, by his behavior, drives increased cruelty and attacks on women rendered with no impunity. And that is only one of her targets in the world she sees.

Karin K. Jensen (@karinjensen607571) looks again, reflecting at the resilience of her mother in her Memoir The Strength of Water, and in so doing leads us to see the strength of all mothers; good, not so, and indifferent. I am grateful to read these three Sybil writers on Substack. There are others, taking up their particular banner, raking through the muck of their farm yard. With that analogy you might want to check out Sarah Langford’s Tipping Point (@saramaggielangford). Then there is the supreme queen Margaret Atwood – In the Writer’s Burrow. Atwood remains our fearless leader in all things political, unjust and environmental. At 86 – with nothing to prove to anyone – she continues to write, overturning rocks hiding cesspools in the path to democracy, reminding us of the history that led us to where we are.

There are the softer men, like the artist Alex Hillkurtz (@alexhillkurtzart) who also share their own thoughts as to how our/their art can find a place to bring comfort and beauty to this world.

It has taken days to write this piece. I am mixing and muddling so many metaphors and maybe that is the state of my mind right now. The laundry that first inspired this sceed is all folded and put away while now a new pile is waiting on the bed. But maybe, having laid this out on the page, to be read and received by others, I can pull out the ironing board, plug in the iron and face the world once more.

Done – for the moment.

This has been A Letter From. A Broad Written and read for you by Muriel Murch with WSM by my side and as always supported by Beatrice from MurchStudio

With a deep homage to Tilloe Olson and ‘I Stand Here Ironing’.

Female Complaints

Recorded and Knit together by WSM

September mornings, and the sun is finally shining in London. The first flurry of falling leaves are swept up and the pavements look just a little bit fresher, gardens are tidied for winter and their last autumnal blooms wave at us before the summer light fades. Children are back to school and there is a bustle of work, increased traffic on public transport and Boris had some questions to answer in Parliament on Monday afternoon. Which he did, with his hair combed softly – he knew it would be a difficult day – and a promise to fulfill one election pledge by breaking another. Taxes in one form or another must to go up, to pay for the increased health care needs of the country. It is not all the fault of the elderly for living longer – though that could be where to focus some attention. But after the afternoon session in parliament, it is onto the ‘Let’s all have a drink together and get along’ cocktail party hosted by Johnson, and paid for by us, as he tries to keep his friends close and his enemies closer. The Right Honorable Jacob Rees Mogg gave a weak smile before turning his back on the reporters and, with double-vented jacket not showing him to advantage, entering number 10 Downing Street. The Right Honorable Michael Gove may still be in Aberdeen. Luckily Domonic Raab is nowhere to be seen having slipped off to Pakistan trying to find safe passage for those afghans left behind after the British evacuation of Afghanistan. There is no certainty that Raab can return with the needed free pass tickets on his shopping list.

The Right Honorable Jacob Rees Mogg on the bench

We hear less from Afghanistan, but the news stories that do come through are of cruelty and despair, such as the pregnant police woman, Banu Negar, killed in front of her family. There will be no ‘good news’ coming from Kabul until the Taliban control the media outlets and feed news to the Western world. How it is that Secunder Kermani and Lyse Doucet can continue to report for the BBC from Kabul and other parts of Afghanistan is hard to fathom. With a new government not yet formed, and young men on the streets all eager to do something, the Taliban’s promise of ‘No grudges, no revenge’ is proving messy to follow. We hear little of how other countries faired getting their personal out during the Taliban take over and may hear even less about how they might return.

But the Taliban and the new Afghanistan leadership need money. Europe recognizes this and Germany appears to be leading by a nose, sniffing out what opportunities there are still in this land-locked country. Where can a foothold be found that will ensure a western presence to plug the hole of a ship-side leak open to the seas of Russian and Chinese advances?

The Taliban say that women and girls will have full rights ‘under Islamic law’ but Islamic law, like any other law, is subject to interpretation and already new rules about dress and education leave many women and their families fearful. Such strict laws preclude many women from the problems that beset women from other countries and, as has been recently seen – states such as Texas.

The new laws in Texas, banning abortion for whatever reason beyond 6 weeks of gestation, brings fear to this generation of fecund women and some hash memories back to those way past their prime. Seeing the protests in Texas of young women dressed in the red cloak of Margaret Atwood’s “The Handmaid’s Tale” was as chilling as anything we have seen in America since the beginning of this year. Margaret Atwood says of her 1985 novel “I didn’t put in anything that we haven’t already done, we’re not already doing, we’re seriously trying to do, coupled with trends that are already in progress… So all of these things are real, and therefore the amount of pure invention is close to nil.” It is as if the men of Texas and beyond have said to themselves, ‘Yeah. This is how it should be.’ 

Women in Texas

And that can be the burping misfiring of art, rather like ‘Apocalypse Now’ conceived as the ultimate antiwar film only ofttimes used as a training tool to those young men and women heading out to the deserts and beyond.   

“I tried gin, hot baths, the lot” said my mother recounting her reaction when learning she was pregnant – with me. Not necessarily how one wants to feel welcomed into the world, but no less true because of it. Documented in the Egyptian Ebers Papyrus 1850 BC, ways to prevent an unwanted pregnancy have been sought out and used to various degrees of dissatisfaction, despair, disease and death. Fighting for legal methods of birth control have consumed women, and some men, during the past two centuries, and remains contentious to this day. Those of us who ‘came of age’, in the mid-1960’s still remember the fear of unwanted pregnancies.

A little box of little pills. From the Welcome Trust Museum.

For nurses there were various paths open within hospital systems: volunteering to take patients to the X-ray department, before the mandatory introduction of lead aprons was one; a somewhat-drunken date with a maintenance supervisor who was as handy as any Vera Drake in his day another. And then there were Widow Welch’s Pills. Containing high doses of iron, pennyroyal and juniper and advertised as being very effective in curing ‘Female Obstruction’ they were freely obtainable from Boots the Chemists.

And if prayer, that first and last resort, was also tried and failed, there may be a rushed marriage and definitely expulsion from nursing school. For pregnancy and even marriage made one unsuitable for the profession. Meanwhile those impregnating young doctors graduated into their lives carrying only their memories that faded over time.

This has been A letter from A. Broad

Written and read for you by Muriel Murch

First Aired on Swimming Upstream KWMR.org

Web support by murchstudio.com