Sunday evening is special, isn’t it?
Whether the work week ahead fills you with excitement or dread, it’s a new beginning in the morning. A new chance, a potential for change, for excitement, for success.
Then there’s the sense of all the unfinished bits of the weekend pressing for closure. “Pick me,” “no me,” “no over here!” Sometimes the clamor in my head on Sunday evening is an awful thing. But tonight, with enough done this weekend that the voices are like the murmurings of the sea on a summer day, and a Monday ahead that’s not too overloaded with deadlines, it feels pretty darn good.
Oh, it’s after five already, and there’s laundry still to fold, a few plants still to plant, potatos to cut up and make potato salad from, dishes to do, trash to be gathered and taken outside (note to self: remember to breathe), and a few more trifles, but clearly, no one will die, no wars will be lost, no kingdoms forfeited if I don’t manage it all.
So I’ll spell check this entry, put on a CD (Phoebe Snow, Live) and hit the kitchen. Dark will descend while music plays, the scent of dill, potatoes, dish detergent and clean laundry will mingle with the soaring of Phoebe’s voice, and I’ll know it was a lovely weekend.