sunday nights are like this, no one feels ready for the week.
there are things to do, but nothing urgent. not like the past two weeks, when we had important things, calendar things, to see to. a trip to Scotland. a baby shower. a trip to Surrey. a wedding.
and i have been busy. bridesmaid busy. happy and overwhelmed busy. always sure that there at least three other things at any point in time i could also be doing busy.
i have watched two friends get married and been grateful to be there, to see it, because it is no small thing to witness.
i have spent too much time apart from my little one and felt the physical pull, the pain, the niggle, the longing, to curl up with her on our bed and just be with each other and i have made up for it by holding her so close for the past two days now. so close.
i have breathed out, let out the adrenaline from the last two weeks, breathed it out and loosened a little, feeling better, readying myself for more stillness, for more simplicity. for a season of making, of collecting and of reflecting.
and we have had a range of big conversations and small conversations. about our family, our home, our little girl, and laughed at the secret of it all, and the rightness of it all.
(and closed her eyes when she wouldn’t close them herself, sleep-fighter, wake-lover til the end.
and a sudden urge to throw away almost everything, paint a room like stone, have nothing but the big round brown teapot that means a big family, I’m told, and a book)
sunday was never my favourite, but not the worst either. i’m at an age now where it could go either way. it could be the pot of peach, apple and blueberry cooked on the stove for the little’s breakfast. it could be the parcel wrapped, finally, ready to be sent. it could be a simple nod back to the week and a wonder at how it all happened.
another week, another sunday to look out from, to curl up in, the last moments of retreat before the next one quickens by and it is sunday all over again.