Sundays Are…

Sundays are sometimes a wreck. If I have emotional roller coaster days, they’re usually on Sundays. I read a lot of poetry on Sundays. I look out the window a lot on Sundays. I try to do some writing and usually get the groceries. I used to hate getting groceries and now when I find myself in “just get it over and done with mode,” I think back to a time when I was learning to walk slowly and be more present in the world – that usually makes me smile and enjoy the trip in a wistful sort of way. If I make big dinners (meaning long, slow meals), I do that on Sundays – and then lament that I don’t make the time to do it more often. The showers are longer on Sundays – hotter too. On Sundays, the sheets get changed and I tend to survey my life in the things I’ve accumulated. Sundays are long and never long enough. Sundays are when I listen to the lyrics. Sundays are when I realize the world may not have much use for me and my type of a Sunday. I won’t be prepping for the week ahead and I’ll fight to keep the barbarians of commerce and productivity at the gate – at least until the dawn. Sundays seems to be when I finally have undone myself from the previous week, washed it off, found a groove and flow. Sundays are when my best and worst ideas come to me, and I can’t always differentiate between the two. Sundays are full of big question worry and tiny gifts of recollections. Sundays are when the story gets re-written and when I dream while still awake. Sundays are for my animal heart beating loud and dumb. Sundays are for writhing and squirming, kicking at the doors before they put the handcuffs on. Sundays are…