Sundays

The encroachment of commerce on Sundays hasn't changed my fondness for them. I still feel different on Sunday mornings, despite years of working night shifts and weekends as a nurse. Sundays are special.

My affection for this day of traditional Christian rituals has nothing to do with faith or religion. In fact, the worst parts of Sundays past were the religious parts, which I tolerated with an eye to the rest of the day. In my working-class house as a child, Sundays were truly days of rest. Both my parents worked. It was the day when we could count of better moods and special meals. It was a day free of school. It was a day when we often got out of my sooty home town on a car trip to visit relatives or tour the leafy countryside.

I recently spent a dozen Sundays working as a volunteer for a local Humanist organization. My enthusiasm for the work was initially dimmed by my sacrifice of Sunday leisure, but I found that it gave me a new reason to see Sundays as special days. My Sunday mindset seems to be more or less unshakable. 

Over the years since I retired from my more routine work life, I have tried to instill Sunday mentality in all the days of the week, but it hasn't really worked. Saturdays have shown some promise, as have Wednesdays for a number of reasons. Mondays, despite their obvious proximity, are most lacking in Sunday's lightness of being. 

I would like to evolve to the point that the specific day or month or season has little effect on my experience of inner peace and happiness. I'm not quite there yet. Perhaps I will never be that enlightened. It doesn't bother me. I relish my Sunday morning exuberance. I have learned through some hard times, that any joy that comes naturally should be embraced and relished.