Washing the dishes at Ngatiawa

One of my fondest memories of childhood was of family holidays joining my aunt and uncle at a wonderful lodge by Llyn Cregennen in North Wales.  We would bundle in, together with our cousins and what seemed like dozens of random friends, relatives and strangers for a week or two of fun and games, laughter and beauty.  I loved those carefree days of running down to the little stone boathouse and rowing across to pick bilberries on our ‘Wild Cat Island’, returning with purple hands and faces to tuck into a scrumptious tea; or racing up and down ‘Breakfast Mountain’ to earn our platefuls of bacon and eggs; or, on more adventurous days, trekking up to the top of Cadair Idris, then, tired and footsore, settling down to an evening of communal stories or games. 

But one of the real highlights of those holidays was the washing up.  Now I’m sure that, once upon a time, I was a normal teenager, and made as much fuss as anyone about doing the dishes at home.  Not so at Cregennen.  Somehow, Uncle George had transformed this mundane chore into a time of real community, as we took it in turns to join the rota, with half a dozen people of all ages in an impressive production line: stacking, washing, rinsing, drying, putting away.  As the enormous piles of dirty, greasy plates seemed to seamlessly work their way through the process, jokes would be told, songs sung, and adventurous tales recounted.  And a seed was sown which has stuck with me over the past 40 years.

So now I have, once again, found my fulfilment: standing at the sink at Ngatiawa.  A mish-mash community of 20-30 people (I’m not entirely sure how many people are actually here, and I’m not convinced anyone really knows) generates a lot of dirty dishes.  So there are plenty of opportunities to roll up my sleeves and stick my arms in.  Once again, there is a tremendous sense of community as we eat together, share stories, laugh and joke, get to know each other.  Then perhaps join in as Matt, hot and sweaty from dealing with the sheep, strikes up a Beatles’ song, or duck, as 13-month old Jonah decides to share his meal with everyone else, or chat about our various journeys, or wander off into our own individual musings as Jess puts some mood music on the CD player.

I’d thought I might write some deep, meaningful, spiritual blog today.  But after a day just relaxing, talking with others, sitting in the sun with my feet being washed by the cool, clear waters of the Ngatiawa river, and joining in the simple daily rhythm of life, I’ve decided that maybe something as basic as washing the dishes may be where my true spirituality lies.