Sunday mornings are quiet. That’s my favorite part. They are quiet and still. Time feels free. Like I’m not trading it for anything else. That this moment is here just for this moment. To be. And I alone can choose how to fill it. Sunday morning.
In those first moments of waking up, when I haven’t decided if I’m ready to open my eyes, I remind myself that it’s Sunday morning. That I don’t have to go anywhere. Sometime deep in the night during one of the frequent times I typically wake up, I decided to opt out of an event I had planned to attend later today. A good thing that will happen at 5 o’clock. But not a “best” thing for me today. There is always a wrestling with those types of decisions, and to say no feels like a battle at times. Like there’s a permission only I can grant. If I’m willing.
So, this Sunday morning feels quieter. Knowing there are no commitments today. No places to be. That there is a waking and a retiring, with only my choices in between. The only noise in the house is the sound of my own thoughts. I whisper out loud to break the cycle in my mind. “It’s ok to rest. Everything else will be fine.” And I decide to get up.
Tshirt from yesterday. Shoes that let me walk in the grass. Baseball cap bearing the words “defy gravity.” Moisturizer. A spray. I don’t know what it’s called, but this one smells good. Chap stick.
When I open my bedroom door, the puppy whines. She’s been waiting. Half asleep herself corralled in her crate. Do I want hot or iced coffee?
I mix chocolate syrup and vanilla creamer with Maggie’s favorite cold brew. I retrieve my sketchbook and my laptop and go to the porch, my favorite place to write these days. On the white swing sometimes leaning against the chain with my feet up. It’s more shaded this time of year while the sun makes a higher arc on its travel through the day. It’s oddly cooler for mid-May in Mississippi, and I tell myself to take a deep breath. I close my eyes and require myself to listen.
Sunday morning is quiet. There are no sounds of lawn mower engines like you hear on Saturdays. And there are fewer cars now because it’s the end of graduation weekend at the university. Mostly birds and insects and frogs. They were up at daybreak to begin their work of correspondence, and now I’m privy to the conversations. I can hear the leaves rustling with a breeze and I force myself to listen. To block out the thoughts that want to distract, and simply listen.
The birds are calling to each other in a language I’ve heard but don’t understand. I know they fly from the magnolia to the crape myrtle to the sasanqua and a dozen other tres and bushes I can’t recall. They are busy, but the sound is the call of joy, not the call of urgency. It is unhurried and carefree.
When I open my eyes, I can see them. Blue jays and several families of cardinals. They have a loose neighborly attitude but chase each other from tree to tree when needed. They have lost their puffiness from winter. The cardinals mate for life and several families make our yard their home. They live their lives and raise their young in our branches. I don’t know where they breathe their last breath. But I hope it is under that shade.
My mind falls to this quote I remember. An Irish proverb used as the title of a book I once read. “It is in the shelter of each other that people live.” The word is “scáth” in the ancient Irish and means both shelter and shadow – ever the duality.
I’m on a quest to reject urgency. Mainly the urgent thoughts that surface in my brain when I have questions, when certain memories arise, or a twinge of worry or the weight of mistakes made. When I feel a sadness creep into that middle part of my back. The ache of loss and processing change. I’m on a quest to reject the urgency and rapid fire of thinking that emerges from those moments. The desire to reach out or question what I already know is true. The urge to say I’m sorry, to make amends. The need to fill the space with something – anything. I’m on a quest to face the moment, to breathe it in and release it’s power into the ancient grace still at hand. To feel the loss, or the desire or even the hope, without analyzing it. To name it without giving it power. To teach my brain and my heart that in this moment, nothing else can be done. In this moment, what is out of my control is still in the hands of an ever-loving Father. In this moment, all is well. To accept the quiet as healing, even if it doesn’t come with answers or confirmation.
And in that re-training, to learn to hope with confidence. To shelter myself in ordinary moments and recognize their power. To speak the truth of their every day joy deep into my spirit. To allow my heart and my mind to recognize them again. And embrace the quiet grace they bring. To rest in new mercies.
