Sundays

  I love the peacefulness of an ordinary Sunday. People sleep in, the graceful go to church. The air swells with the absence of traffic, as natural as it was before the revolt of industry. You can hear the birds and trees swaying in the wind more clearly. When you run, clouds can watch you without the film of light pollution. When you read, the words speak to you more carefully. You aren't thinking so fast that the day falls into a forgetful cavity. You savor the moments, the quiet solitude that enhances reflection, the fun and meaningful events you attended with family. God's goodness shines on the slow things you do, methodically and lovingly, in full realization of the gifts he gave you. The non-physical is given as much attention as the physical. It is the great reset that prepares you for the next week, a revolution of the clock restructuring the order lost from the chaos of six other days. It is a day of prayer, wonder, communion, all the intangibles we need to function without admitting it. Sunday is the forsaken goddess that soothes us in our stressful slumber. Refreshing fruits of religious harmony reconcile you to the other faiths that preach solace on this special day. It is a holiday about nothing, ignored by the calendars, secretly yearned for by the busy and the pious. Civilization pauses for a splendid seventh of its monopoly on time. The painters and the poets spend their deepest moments meditating on eternal truths unveiled. Weddings produce the most sustainable moment of joy the good Earth will witness. Angels sing to us sopranos of blessedness and love. All is in rhythm, all is bright, all is safe, all is well. I love the peacefulness of an ordinary Sunday.

Gratitude

    Be wary of the talons of gratitude. People can go their whole lives being grateful for what someone did, not realizing they are enabling bad behavior. A person can save your life or bail you out and expect you to repay them by allowing them to treat you badly. When parents do this, it is especially deceptive. Once you call them out, they will be quick to point out all the positive things they've done for you, making it seem like the bad things are excusable, as a sort of guilt trip. They will use the guilt to make you a pawn in their scheme.

    True gratitude is feeling appreciative of the people that gave you something without expecting anything in return. Their expectations don't trigger an imbalanced power struggle. When you don't feel the stress of constantly needing to please them, it is much easier to feel gratitude in its pure form.

The Drums and the Guitar

    The brave drums marched through the jungle, beating to the pulse of its wet, humid air. Leaves on the trees shook as they paraded past, moving with a cadence that to the trained eye might have perceived them dancing. Each beat intensified as the evening drew on, growing louder as they approached the river. Like a troop of monkeys, they had transformed the quiet canopy into a frenzy of percussion.
    Once they came to the river, a sound as sweet as honey stopped them in their tracks. On the other side, a voluptuous guitar was stringing herself along the shore, meandering with her notes to the flow of the water. She dazzled the spectators with her otherworldly sound, so much that the batonists fell into a swoon of silence. 
    As she approached, the air became electric with her hypnotic solo. She stopped to look at the water, emanating a melancholy disposition. Tears of sadness fell from her frets, supplying the river with a lonely dirge that collected in a stream. The drums could see that she was alone, that she yearned for a companion in the compositions she kept.
    It was the smallest drum who cast the first beat. The guitar's interest piqued at the sound of a complementary performer. Soon the larger drums followed his lead, so that the chords of the guitar blended into the beats, becoming something bigger. The drums no longer wanted to march in formation as a single entity, but to become synchronized with the lovely treasure they'd found across the river.
    As they gathered around her, their sounds rolled into an assembly of powerful forces that liberated her from the shell she'd been in. At once she played high, fast notes that speckled the firmament with a galvanized crescendo, bolstered by the heavy pounding below. The leaves on the trees whipped back and forth, swaying in newfound fusion, while the water rushed with a progression of strength.
    The guitar was eminently pleased with her new band of brothers, who'd fallen in love with her. Their marching beats carried her through the rest of the jungle, curing her sadness, giving her purpose. In turn, she led them to charge a bridge over the river, taming their wildness, connecting division through unity. Once she had them, the world became clear.