It has come to this: Sundays are my punishment for a heathen life. Lacking a congregation, a place of meditation, a reason to meditate on this day (over, say, Monday), I have punished myself fully by making it a day of work.
On Sunday mornings, I scrub my home clean.
Tired and needing respite, I put away the two sponges, one dust rag and one scouring pad and I take out my pressed black duds so that I can hike over to the shop and hustle some products to meet corporate goals.
I work for a decent place: corporate goals are reasonable, and indeed, today we do more than well by them, but it is unquestionably, without doubt, work.
By evening, I am spent. My legs have not been in their favorite position (reclining, preferably, on my coffee table) since sunrise.
I have one more errand to run and this is indeed the highlight: Ed zips me over on his motorbike to State Street, where, at Steep & Brew (the café), two artists (she photographs and he frames, or the other way around, or in conjunction with one another) are displaying their photos.
Me, I know one member of the pair from the Westside Community Farmers Market (often she helps her mom sell stuff – see previous post). But I’m here because it is so rare that one can feel great fondness for both the art and the artist(s). Not impossible, mind you (commenters, all of you – from Michigan to Massachusetts to Boat of Garten in Scotland, surely you know I’m thinking of you), but so rare.
Ed sits back and enjoys the free cookies and the break from the recent onslaught of my catapulting anxieties about life, work and all things in between.
I buy three beautiful cards, with photos that only people who understood farming from the core could take, and I go home. It’s a good ending to a not the easiest of days. Such good fortune. Wouldn’t it be terrible if the day began in a grand manner and then, after teetering, plummeted to an unforgiving end?