I’m not sure I am fond of Sundays. In my youth it was the dread day, the day of loud classical music and bad tempers. The day we children, no matter our years were confined to barracks. We had to stay. It was never an option no matter the twitch in our young souls or the calls from friends to go somewhere, be someone beyond parental control. There was church. There was the whole thing of Sunday Lunch, an always delicious feast but not an easy one. And yet, within the awkwardness of table behaviour and the longing to be anywhere but here, we found our places, we jigged in, we found play and we found fun.
I remember this, even now. I may even have brought this forward for my own children. I probably did, not having a clue, not thinking. It was Catholic in those days, Church of England in my own. Either or, still confining and defining. I feel a semblance of shame for my part in continuing the thread, the threads. It isn’t that I don’t believe in God because I do, but Man has so f*cked this up. I rest there.
This morning I work on my tapestry. I listen to glorious music, an audio book as I work. I watch the rain as it falls relentless against my windows, all of them; the rise and surge of more rain after rain shows me a more determined rain. I consider. Will I sit on the other side of this rain or will I walk out into it, engage, find my fury, pull up my hood, let the endless wet invade meunday and will I let it enjoy me? hmmmm.
I walk out, dog happy, and we paddle and skid and we keep moving.
Best way, especially on a Sunday.