The Spiritual Practice of Polishing Silver

When I was a little girl, I once received a package from my Great-aunt Luella in California. Since she lived so far away, I didn’t know her very well, but I remember her as a serious and rather formidable woman.

Surprised, I eagerly opened the package. There, wrapped in newspaper, I found six sherbet cups: silver holders that were black and tarnished and glass cups that fit within them. I remember wondering what they were since fancy sherbet cups weren’t part of my farm girl experience! My mother explained how they fit together, and then we wrapped them up and put them away.

For most of my life, I’ve ignored those cups. Tucked away in newspapers in their box, I forgot all about them. I never thought of polishing them when I polished a couple other silver utensils I had.

A month ago, however, as I was sorting through old things, I rediscovered the box. I opened it and examined its contents. And I decided to honor Great-aunt Luella’s gift by polishing the tarnished cups. Great-aunt Luella and her gift would always be a mystery to me, but perhaps it wasn’t too late to honor both of them by trying to resurrect the beauty of the cups.

And so I began. It seemed almost hopeless to expect that cleaning paste and elbow grease would make a difference, but I focused on one spot and rubbed and rubbed. Then I rubbed some more. Slowly, slowly, the color in that area changed. Bit by bit, it began to shine. That first cup holder took almost two hours to clean, but how it glowed when it was finished!

There were six silver cup holders, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to do all of them. But something drew me to begin the next one. I began to realize this wasn’t about completing a job. This was about the practice of rubbing, about holding each cup gently and repeating the same movements over and over again. It was becoming a kind of spiritual practice.

The repetition of rubbing the tarnished silver cups was peaceful and centered me. Moving fast didn’t help; pressing hard on the delicate silver could be disastrous. Slowly and steadily, I gave myself to the rhythm of the polishing. Immersed in the present quiet moment, I wasn’t pushing to finish a task. Like a prayer practice of passing beads through my fingers or repeating a mantra as I walked, polishing the silver cups was inviting me to be more fully alive in the now.

One after another, I took up each silver cup holder and began to polish it. When each was finished, I placed it on the counter and set the glass cup within its silver cradle. Then I watched it sparkle in the sunlight. I was grateful for Great-aunt Luella’s gift as I had never been before. I felt closer to her than I ever had before.

I was both glad and sorry when I completed the last one. I loved the beauty that emerged where it was unexpected. I loved the way the spiritual practice of polishing silver had been a time of quiet opening to God in the midst of my full days.

Thich Nhat Hanh wrote There are two ways to wash the dishes. The first is to wash the dishes in order to have clean dishes and the second is to wash the dishes in order to wash the dishes. I had discovered there are two ways to polish silver. I’m grateful that I polished silver in order to polish the silver.

I wonder what other spiritual practices might be waiting to be discovered. Are there ordinary activities of my day that can open me to the the sacred within the present moment? Perhaps I can fold laundry as a spiritual practice, rather than a task to do as fast and efficiently as possible. Perhaps I can prayerfully and attentively slice carrots, make a salad, load the dishwasher or sweep the porch. Perhaps I can, as Thich Nhat Hanh also wrote, Walk as if you are kissing the earth with your feet.

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