We chilled on Sunday
Fighting the fear and finding joy
On Sunday, I spent hours in a trance creating a Pinterest board of poems. Finding ones I already knew and loved. Pinning new ones I found. Searching through hundreds of pages on Poetry Foundation for little gems. I found poems that sent flutters through my body and tingles in my fingers. Ones that made my eyes close, pausing in reflection. A quiet little slice of contemplation. It was the perfect afternoon. I felt at ease. Cuddled up on the sofa as the sun went down. The words of others swimming around in my head.
Sunday can be decisive. The Sunday scaries don’t creep, they pounce. Preying on your insecurities, ominous as another Monday looms. They make you think you’re failing. Living week in, week out with nothing new to show for it. They threaten the lovely little existence you have. Make you forget about every glimmer and small moment of joy you’ve found since last time around. Your chest tightens. You panic that you just haven’t done enough, that you can’t do your job, that you’re running out of time. You trundle along to bed anxious, a restless night sleep ahead of you as you. Spending fitful hours fighting with the duvet and all the negative thoughts clouding your mind.
Other Sundays, the world looks rosy and bright. You see things anew as if you’ve woken from days, weeks even in a deep slumber. You go on walks. Birdsong follows you around every corner. Gentle winds shake blossom from freshly blooming trees. The grass smells sweet. Clouds glide through the sky undisturbed. The sun dances on the path in front, creating patterns meant for you. You remember how nice it feels to smile at strangers just because. You don’t count down the hours until Monday, staying firmly in the present and knowing there is nothing in the world you need to worry about, and nowhere else in the world you need to be. Sleep comes fast on days like these. You think about the soft white puffy clouds you saw earlier as you gently lay your head down on the pillow.
I teeter back and forth. One week on, one week off. Perhaps not quite so consistently but you get the gist. I flitter between the two. Some Sundays I feel paralysed by the perception of my own failings. That it’s already too late to achieve my dreams. Chastising myself for all the things I didn’t tick off the to-do list. Creating one double the length for the next week to make up for it. Other Sundays I see beauty in everything. I have a zest for like and a hopefulness so ripe it tastes strange on my tongue. On these days there’s usually nothing in particular to say about the day. Nothing to make it any more unique or memorable than other days. That’s the true magic of it. The way mundanity no longer feels like a boring sense of conformity, but instead a gift I’m eternally grateful for.
Perhaps I should have waited until Sunday to post this. Or written about Thursdays instead. Thursdays don’t really feel quite so defining, though. And even a mention of Sunday scaries when you’re in the midst of them wouldn’t be all that fun. So this Sunday I wish that all of you are able to find even the tiniest little piece of pure unadulterated joy.