Sunday Mornings

I love Sunday mornings. The quiet, the venerable peace I take from quietude, a full cup, the written word in any incarnation and the sound of my own breathing. Sunday mornings for me is one of many versions of comfortable rebellion: the weekend isn’t quite over but there’s just enough of it left to be languid, to be solaced, to count blessings and be grateful.

It is September 1^st, 2015. A new month, a new dawn officially not called summer. It’s back to school, a clean slate, sweater weather, and almost pumpkin spice time (for those who partake: blech). For me, it is my day to guest blog. To prepare, I spent a quiet Sunday morning musing on what I’d write. I did this with my kitchen table littered with pen and paper and the contents of a birthday package waiting to be assembled and the sound of my Mama and niece in the other room talking quietly and laughing with the TV on in the background and a warm morning breeze coming in through open windows. For all of the troubles that weigh on me of late, the staying sorrows of loss and pressures of work and responsibility accepted the invitation and the deadline to write something for Ru while she was away on holiday. The feeling and the love I feel for Sunday mornings seemed like a fitting subject. So, I threw on my headphones to block out the chatter and white noise, set my favorite playlist to inspire and started to write.

This is what I came up with:

Sunday Mornings

I get my news from long languorous poems

miraculously observant and mimetic verses

brimming with wise blood, skill and honesty &

scrupulous particulars that denote many things.

I derive my concord from the brevity and intensity

of chain-smoking slim cigarillos with Lucille Ball

an act full of division and finality on the surface

her company is startling yet serene down deep.

I take my time reading Raymond Carver stories

to feel soothingly more like my old cheerful self

to escape the haunting of an old handsome lover

to remember that life & art are never separate.

Sunday mornings harmonize with a deep peace

a sound meeting place of imagination and time

sparing with its metaphors generous in comfort.

It sounds ceremonious.

It is.

Sunday mornings save my soul.

**

I am grateful to have been asked to guest blog. It put me back in the creative mind-set. I’ve been barren in that department a long time and appreciate any kick in the pants to get the mind moving, the heart feeling and the fingers typing.

It is also an honour to be asked by someone I admire greatly. When I grow up I hope I will be able to manipulate words as beautifully as Ru does. We are lucky beans to have her creations to enrich us.

Until the next guest blog (provided she’ll have me back) …

In propinquity,

Nic