It was late afternoon on a Saturday, just after a rain shower, much needed in drought-ridden Northern California—the kind that doesn’t quite commit to evening yet. It was the in-between hour, where the light shifted almost without me noticing as it stretched across the living room floor, turning everything a little softer around the edges. In my home, we call that the golden time of day.
I wasn’t doing anything particularly meaningful, just folding laundry. An ordinary pile of tee-shirts, leggings, pajamas, and socks somehow made it back together, along with a sweatshirt that I wore more than I'd like to admit, part of my yoga days' uniform. This was the kind of task I usually rushed through or paired with something else—music, a podcast, watching a show on my cell phone, anything to make it feel less like another mundane chore (that one day would have humans replaced with inexpensive robots doing my housework).
But today, it held my attention. There was something quietly grounding about folding the clothes: the repetition of it, the way each piece seemed to ask for just enough care—smooth this out, line that up, stack it neatly. It wasn't exciting, but it wasn't boring or unnoticeable either.
I noticed how warm everything still felt as I carried the bundle up from the basement, not using the laundry basket on purpose, because I enjoyed the warm clothes heating up my torso as I hugged all of the bits close to my belly and chest, and also because the laundry pile carried a trace of the dryer aromas within it. I observed how the fabric changed depending upon what it was—some soft and worn, others still holding onto a bit of structure. I thought about how often I moved through my daily routines and rituals without actually observing and acknowledging them, without letting them register for a moment.
I spend a lot of time teaching others how to practice and process mindfulness daily, to observe the present moment through movement or meditative practices, yet not stopping the internal race long enough or often enough to do the same for myself. We humans often think life is somewhere else, in bigger plans, in future versions, in activities, in relationships, and in material things that haven’t manifested yet.
But here I was, on a late Saturday afternoon, folding a shirt I’ve worn a hundred times, and for a moment my life felt… complete. There was no swelling orchestra, no grand, cinematic activity. There was a mountain of laundry, quietly finished. This small act had a beginning, a middle, and an end—and I was actually present for all of it.
It made me realize how rarely I let things be enough just on their own. I’m always layering meaning on top of moments, or worse, diminishing or dismissing them entirely because they don’t seem meaningful enough. It was when I left the USA for years and traveled to other countries for work and pleasure that I thoughtfully absorbed each experience of each day with gusto, thirst, patience, and appreciation. Maybe meaning isn’t something we add on to each experience of each day. Maybe it is something that shows up when we finally stop trying to get past where we are.
By the time I finished the laundry, the light had shifted again. The room looked different, even though nothing had really changed. The folded stacks sat there—quiet proof that something had been done, cared for, completed. I was a success, a yes, an accomplishment, in that small house task. I didn’t feel behind, hurried, or like I needed to be somewhere else.
It wasn’t a big moment, but it didn’t feel small either.
Thank you for reading this.
Sincerely,
KJ Landis
@superiorself on Instagram and X
@SuperiorSelf channel on YouTube
@superiorselfwithkjlandis on TikTok
[email protected]
Books available everywhere!
I wasn’t doing anything particularly meaningful, just folding laundry. An ordinary pile of tee-shirts, leggings, pajamas, and socks somehow made it back together, along with a sweatshirt that I wore more than I'd like to admit, part of my yoga days' uniform. This was the kind of task I usually rushed through or paired with something else—music, a podcast, watching a show on my cell phone, anything to make it feel less like another mundane chore (that one day would have humans replaced with inexpensive robots doing my housework).
But today, it held my attention. There was something quietly grounding about folding the clothes: the repetition of it, the way each piece seemed to ask for just enough care—smooth this out, line that up, stack it neatly. It wasn't exciting, but it wasn't boring or unnoticeable either.
I noticed how warm everything still felt as I carried the bundle up from the basement, not using the laundry basket on purpose, because I enjoyed the warm clothes heating up my torso as I hugged all of the bits close to my belly and chest, and also because the laundry pile carried a trace of the dryer aromas within it. I observed how the fabric changed depending upon what it was—some soft and worn, others still holding onto a bit of structure. I thought about how often I moved through my daily routines and rituals without actually observing and acknowledging them, without letting them register for a moment.
I spend a lot of time teaching others how to practice and process mindfulness daily, to observe the present moment through movement or meditative practices, yet not stopping the internal race long enough or often enough to do the same for myself. We humans often think life is somewhere else, in bigger plans, in future versions, in activities, in relationships, and in material things that haven’t manifested yet.
But here I was, on a late Saturday afternoon, folding a shirt I’ve worn a hundred times, and for a moment my life felt… complete. There was no swelling orchestra, no grand, cinematic activity. There was a mountain of laundry, quietly finished. This small act had a beginning, a middle, and an end—and I was actually present for all of it.
It made me realize how rarely I let things be enough just on their own. I’m always layering meaning on top of moments, or worse, diminishing or dismissing them entirely because they don’t seem meaningful enough. It was when I left the USA for years and traveled to other countries for work and pleasure that I thoughtfully absorbed each experience of each day with gusto, thirst, patience, and appreciation. Maybe meaning isn’t something we add on to each experience of each day. Maybe it is something that shows up when we finally stop trying to get past where we are.
By the time I finished the laundry, the light had shifted again. The room looked different, even though nothing had really changed. The folded stacks sat there—quiet proof that something had been done, cared for, completed. I was a success, a yes, an accomplishment, in that small house task. I didn’t feel behind, hurried, or like I needed to be somewhere else.
It wasn’t a big moment, but it didn’t feel small either.
Thank you for reading this.
Sincerely,
KJ Landis
@superiorself on Instagram and X
@SuperiorSelf channel on YouTube
@superiorselfwithkjlandis on TikTok
[email protected]
Books available everywhere!
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