Don’t read this before 7 a.m. Sleep in — it’s Sunday. Sleep in, catch up and heal. You need it like a cat needs a pant leg.
Catch your breath. Lean against the ropes. Look at your crazy life with which you have been grappling for six consecutive days and say, “What do you say we put down the gloves, go to a neutral corner and rest?”
Rest. On Sunday, the goals are simple. Do everything at a leisurely pace as if time were your friend rather than the rascal whose neck you can’t quite get your hands around.
Life has a flow and rhythm to it. Most of the time, we are too busy to appreciate it. Sunday is a chance to feel the charm of a life free of haste.
“I may be late for the ride,” texted a friend. “I’ll try to catch up.”
Don’t rush. Don’t catch up. Five minutes, ten minutes, twenty — there is no late on Sunday. If anything, go slower. We’ll wait because waiting will be as good for us as not rushing will be for you.
Sunday is filled with possibilities. Dumb stuff. Bottom of the list stuff.
I refilled the hummingbird feeder, a perfect Sunday sort of thing to do. It had been empty for days. Come back, hummingbirds. Drink until you’re drunk with sugar water. I have more.
It’s relaxing to watch hummingbirds feed or would be if there weren’t flapping their wings 70 times a second. It makes me feel like I’m not working very hard. On Sunday, not working hard is the goal, not a midcourse correction.
Sundays are about bacon. Bacon with fresh ground pepper, baked on a cookie sheet at 400 degrees for 20 minutes. Mr. Bacon is accompanied by two eggs topped with Gruyere taking shelter in an onion bagel, flanked by a cinnamon roll with cream cheese icing, a large chunk of sweet watermelon and two glasses of cranberry juice.
No yogurt today, no Grape-Nuts, nothing that can be confused with health or a long life. Sunday is the breakfast you’d eat if you were going to the chair and had the early slot.
Feel free to read the sports section. Front to back. Even the article on gymnastics.
After breakfast, I drove to Lowe’s. There was nobody on the West Side Parkway. I had it to myself. People were in church but as Maren Morris sings "I find holy redemption, when I put this car in drive," even if it ends in the paint department at the home improvement center.
The two guys in paint were extra friendly. If I wasn’t their first customer, they made me feel as if I were someone about whose shopping experience they cared deeply.
“Can we help you?” asked the one with the hollowed out earlobes that looked big enough to fly a small plane through.
Yes, you can. Keep being cheerful. It’s contagious and we want to catch all of that we can.
I took Rosedale Highway home. Rosedale can be a nightmare. A road jammed with cars, cones and construction, or “destruction,” as Andrew, our 4-year-old grandson describes it.
Not on Sunday. Rosedale stretched wide and empty as the Mississippi. I felt like Rosedale could take me home, no matter where home was.
Before home, I stopped by Dewar’s. I could have bought a half pint of chocolate sauce to go with the peppermint stick ice cream — a half pint is what you buy the rest of the week, but on Sundays, you buy a pint. You don’t want to run out — ever.
All this running around can make a man tired. I took a nap when I got home. It wasn’t nap time, but two naps are acceptable on Sundays.
Ball game on — watch it. Refinish the deck — roll baby, roll. Anything is possible on Sunday including the notion that anything is possible.
Anything. Including finding your way home. Home to rythym and flow. No rush, it will be waiting.