I’m no lover of Monday, but I rarely find myself sad to see Sunday go. Used to be that I got stomachaches or some other breed of pyschosomatic discomfort right around dinner time on Sunday nights, so the latter part of the day was ruined. Those were an improvement over the days when I was nauseatingly lonely at the Sunday dinner hour, and would mope cry and question the value of my existence.
Sunday is also very much the start of my work week: cooking, laundry, tidying, all the planning I don’t want to do, get crammed into that weekend day so I just relax on Saturday.
But this Sunday. This Sunday the day felt like a luxury item, and I did not want to stop stroking its fine, soft surface. There’s a new category of people in my life. Friends. No. Definitely not friends. Twenty-eight hours does not make friends. Not even knowing the barest basic details about someone, does not make friends. Colleagues. Yes, more like. But also more than. Companions on a ludicrous, committed, heartfelt journey.
Creating something in community is a wondrous experience. In spite of the act of performance, the shimmering road stumbled to get there is often invisible. If conditions are right some patina of that creative celestium will glint through the spectacle, but it is felt rather than seen. I’m not stumbling that road any given Sunday.
Life doesn’t go away though. Grocery shopping was the bookend on This Sunday’s magical mystery tour. But I was driving home at the change of the light; gloaming -purple, gray, and backlit by the westerly dipping sun- made quicksilver of the bare trees of the cemetery, cloaked a winter-weary ground in a deceptive shimmer, fairy glamour, the incredible luck of our well-tuned human eyes, planet earth’s unique atmospheric english on incoming light, and imagination. I glowed right home, and clung to Sunday tightly. ‘Come again.’ I whispered. And the day slipped away.