Everything is a miracle. It is a miracle one does not
dissolve in one's bath like a lump of sugar. – Pablo Picasso
There must be quite a few things a hot bath won't cure,
but I don't know many of them. – Sylvia Plath
Sorrow can be alleviated by good sleep,
a bath, and a glass of wine. – St. Thomas Aquinas
One of the simple pleasures and leisures I am most grateful for is bath time. When I was nine years old, and the family was looking for a new house, what sold my mother on the 1920's bungalow we eventually would call home was the clawfoot bathtub. And, like mother like daughter, while looking for my first "real" apartment, what sold me was the beautiful, white, deep clawfoot bathtub.
So it was at a young age that bath time for me was revered as a sacred space for the bather, not unlike meditation or prayer. I draw my bath, pouring the suds by the capful under the running water, and close the door to allow for the scented steam to fill the room (for me, the chosen scent is EO's Rose and Chamomile). I light candles, slip in, and listen to the bubbles' whisper pops. I like to gather the foam around me, like a sudsy shawl or watery wrap, and feel the bubbles kiss my skin. Silence seeps and thoughts vanish, dissolving like lumps of sugar, and everything seems a simple miracle.
*Reposted from my old blog, Merci Me. I finally have a bathtub in my apartment again, and I have brought the ritual back into my life. All the above sentiments still very much ring true.