Sunday Mornings

Sunday mornings are a special time for me. My husband works in the morning, so I am alone in the house. I eat breakfast, and linger over the morning coffee and reading the paper. This time of year is additionally wonderful, since I open the doors and get a fresh breeze circulating through the house and can listen to the birds outside. The cats especially enjoy that part, and the two of them sit side by side at the screen door, ears twitching, sniffing the air.

Sundays are supposed to be a day of rest and worship. I clean the house every Sunday morning, and it's my way of rest and worship. Our house is my center, my peace, and by cleaning it, I'm tending to it, caring for it. Because I share the house with my husband, it's also expressing the love I feel for him, that I treasure this home we've made together. I like that I'm alone with the cats, going at my own pace. I love the way the morning light comes in through the window in the living room, casting shadows through the trees on the carpet. The cats love that too, they love that I'm home, and they roll on their backs in the sun, with their eyes half-closed, fuzzy bellies exposed to the warmth.

I listen to music according to my mood - this morning I'm moving slow because I'm sore from yesterday, and I listened to Mark Knopfler's Ragpicker's Dream, which is a wonderful, homey sort of album. Knopfler is one of the musicians I most respect, being an excellent guitarist and singer, with a very distinctive sound for both.

In many ways, Sunday mornings prepare me for the week ahead. I rediscover my true priorities each week: my husband, my home, my inner peace, my cats. Work is not necessarily part of that list, and it's something that's easy to forget by Wednesday.

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