There was a time when my Sundays were sad and lonely. A time when I needed the hustle and bustle of work to keep my mind off the fact that there was no special man in my life and I didn't know how to cope with that unfamiliar emptiness. A time when Kris Kristofferson spoke to me when he sang this verse of "Sunday Morning Coming Down":
In the park I saw a daddy,
With a laughin' little girl who he was swingin'.
And I stopped beside a Sunday school,
And listened to the song they were singin'.
Then I headed back for home,
And somewhere far away a lonely bell was ringin'.
And it echoed through the canyons,
Like the disappearing dreams of yesterday.
I'm glad to say those days are long gone. Sundays are special to me now, set aside for the solitude and serenity in which I can nourish my spirit and soak up enough peace of mind to last through the coming week.
I seldom leave home on Sundays. If I do, it's to go somewhere or to some event that will enrich my life, not to shop for soup or laundry detergent. This is the day when I'm most likely to spend time on the phone with someone I miss or pursue a project that stimulates my creativity. The only household chores I'll do on Sunday are those that are satisfying to put behind me; otherwise, the tasks can wait.
On Sundays I have time to think and to feel, to think about how lucky I am to have people in my life whom I love so much, to feel the joy that my pets pump deep into my heart, to bask in the beauty that's been there all along.