Sundays are a sacred time in my house, but never holy. Spending time with my parents, visiting my grandparents, taking slow walks and practising peace and self care ahead of another busy week are all vital parts of my weekend to ground myself and prepare for the coming days.
Living at home in your late twenties isn’t always easy, but slow Sundays in front of the television to watch reruns of Top of the Pops from the 1980s and fall into fits of laughter is such a welcome remedy to the worry that churns in the back of my mind. The three of us – my parents and I – fall into an easy rhythm without urgency or direction, allowing a loping pace of idle conversation. On Sunday, the news cycle can be quieted for a few hours, the coffee can be poured, and blankets may form a warm cocoon of safety for a short time.
I’m thankful for my home, and my family, and the acute privilege of being able to have a slow and quiet day of reflection when personal achievement is a foreign concept.
In that regard, sometimes I feel as though it’s a good thing not to have anything specific to report. Sometimes the languid pace of a precious week, where nothing of note was to be recorded, can be something of a blessing. Sometimes a thankful ramble is enough reason to put pen to paper; to document the hush as a hazy picture of a time I will wish I could go back to on some other day less lazy than this.