A Sunday stillness and big blue sky this campervan morning. The thinnest of high cirrus cloud over head drifting slowly away eastwards. No breeze to speak of everything hangs motionless. Dampness clings to cold metal and there is the feeling of thin moisture in the chill early morning air. Loud bird noises rent the air, a pair of gulls calling loud and clear, far off and this morning unseen crows accompany the gull chorus. Pigeons on roof tops and the sound of a nearby robin complete the natural soundscape. Suburbia itself remains still, except for the passing of aeroplanes way overhead. A squirrel launches themself from the oak to the ash and disappears into the high morning air in a flurry of shaking branches. Another self care Sunday opens up before me. Longfellow refers to Sunday as :
“ The golden clasp that binds together the volume of the week “.
I am not sure that for many that’s right anymore. For many it’s another working day, but maybe emotionally it is that golden clasp of closure. The Nobel winning writer Elfriede Jellnek writes of Sunday being :
“ The day for the language of leisure.”
I wonder if that holds true today. So another Sunday unfurls itself and we all experience it in our own unique way. I remain for the moment under the old oak experiencing its manifesting, reflecting on the week gone by and what’s to come this week.
On my reading journey I recently discovered the amazing essayist and writer Alberto Manguel, check out his books A History of Reading and The Library at Night. He wrote that
“ Life happened because I turned the pages “.
This morning I am reviewing a few pages of this week before turning over a new one and writing afresh. Each of these morning musings is the start of a new page, a new chapter, the page turns and the pen glides so to speak and life happened because I turned the page. I have noticed of late that I have dwelled to long on previous and sometimes precious pages and that they should for the most part remain turned. So here’s to the language of leisure and pages turned. Lovely days people.
“ Every reader exists to ensure for a certain book a modest immortality. Reading is, in this sense, a ritual of rebirth.” Alberto Manguel.
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