Sundays

I love Sundays.
The things a person can do on Sundays.
Unless he’s a surgeon on call, or, a prisoner, I guess, his choice is limited.
One can do gardening, for instance.
Breathe the fresh morning air.
Listen to the neighbours snore (it’s Sunday, after all).
Wait for the sun to rise above the surrounding building sites.
So romantic!
We have a little patch of garden that needs watering, weeding, and the weeding – cleaning.
Physical work has always attracted me.
Ever since my parents used to drag me to this farm house, they unfortunately bought, every weekend to work on it.
I was turned into quite the peasant.
In every possible way – from manners and manicure, to knowledge in when to plant strawberries and how to raise chickens and build garages (one, one garage I helped my parents build).
Weird, isn’t it.
I hated it so much when I was a teenager.
So much that, every time Friday came, I pretended I was unwell, in the hope that they’d leave me, MIRACULOUSLY, on my own (best case scenario – with my brother) for two days on our own, without any adult supervision.
And at times I was sick, for real.
Still didn’t work.
I was still dragged to the farm land and I still had to carry my duties.
If my 80-year-old grandpa could, then a 13-year-old could – thrice as much.
Now, I kind of appreciate it.
Going to that farm house every weekend and working my peasant butt off.
My grandpa taught me how to plant things, when to water, how to look after all sorts of crop and some animals, too.
How to keep it all neat and tidy.
Just like a surgeon.
I miss that time, in a way.
Physical work unites people, especially when it reaps red strawberries and ‘organic’ salad; when you see a neatly organised garden, like pharmacy shelves, which you water in peace, right about when sunset reflects in the plummy scarlet tomatoes; when you finally allow yourself stop and feel your flesh sighing, smell the wet sweetness of growing apricots and cherries; when, at the end of the day, you can finally sit at that wooden table in the yard and have a nice chat with the old folks.

The whole thing sounds very idyllic now, while in truth, back then, it missed some vital ingredients.
And I don’t mean compost or fertilisers.

The Sunday newspapers are another thing that makes Sundays enjoyable.
They’re so overwhelming in quantity, that if I actually manage to read them all, I’d probably look like a coal miner after the last piece is excavated.
Of all, I love the London Times.
Their investigative journalism is fantastic – borderline tabloid.
The British wit (or, was it Irish?), and the sense of humour is just the perfect mood setter for the week ahead.
These guys never take themselves seriously even when they discuss serious stuff.
Yet, they have taken on a serious proportion of the world – however you look at it.

Another reason I love Sundays is that on those days we miraculously gather incredible energy and passion about the week ahead.
The planning we make in our heads for the week to come deserves an award of some sort.
I think that Sundays are more like miniature New Year Eves.
When we celebrate a new beginning and, more importantly, start making big new-year resolutions, dieting plans, and to-do lists of what better persons we’ll be in the year that will follow.
In Sunday terms – in the week that will follow.
I’ve caught myself so many times making promises on Sundays for the week ahead:
I’ll wake up early every morning.
I’ll go for a long jog before everyone wakes up.
I’ll read a chapter from a book for 30 minutes.
I’ll eat healthily.
The list is nearly endless.
That’s just for the next 5 days.
And the longer it gets the earlier in the week I become exhausted from it and fail to accomplish any of it.
Until another Sunday hits.
The problem is that those to-do lists are very unlikely to be completed by any stretch of the imagination.
Only if the to-do list has one thing to tick off and not twenty-one.
So much research has been done on the subject that to sum it up here means to risk plagiarising.

Perhaps I’ll just leave Sunday to complete rest, as God gave it and as some parts of the world interpret it.
Maybe that’s the whole point of Sundays – stop and pay attention to all our unarmed senses.
Not stress over the stress we’ll put ourselves through for the next six days.

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