Savoring Sunday

Just an ordinary spring Sunday, but I extracted so much pleasure from it! The sun invited me out, in my burgundy nightgown and shawl from Mexico. I brought a pillow along to enjoy my new deck, with its evenly spaced rows of nails, its 12' X 15' spaciousness, its feel of "come and sit awhile." The east side of the house acted as the back of the bench. Having eaten too much chocolate and fruitcake?yes, I like fruitcake any time of year? the past several days, I was doing a fruit juice fast. So I was sipping the juice, with the sun embracing me, and had to walk around the south side of the house to hear what animal was making those noises. I'd never heard a squirrel go on like that.

I determined to stay put with my paper and pen until I simply didn't feel like staying any longer.For an energetic Do-er like me, that could be compared to a mother enjoying coffee until she thought of something that needed doing. But I wasn't letting my Producer run my show today?this morning was to be daydreaming time, to the accompaniment of birds and the backdrop of my newly landscaped yard. I'd already read the Sunday comics. The sod laid in November was ready to mow, and the sturdy trellis in place for the blackberries which had been trimmed to the ground and would now stay in check, I hoped.

My yard has been uninviting for the past 15 years, until now, and I was luxuriating in it. I was loving the forsythia in bloom, the sight of the rose bushes, and the dogwood not yet in bloom, which would remind me forever of my hours at Lake Junaluska in Waynesville, NC. I was writing poetry there last October in anticipation of meeting a man I'd corresponded with on the Internet for over a year. Dogwood trees there became associated with the heartfelt exchanges I'd had with George. Though that connection did not flower, the sweetness of the anticipation is linked to dogwood trees.Undisturbed this morning hour, I recalled last night's dream of telling a young girl how proud I was of her that she had put things away.

I wondered how much better I could communicate with my own inner child. I'd heard a few minutes of Rev. Robert Schuller on TV, and was glad for people finding nourishment and peace through whatever spiritual experiences they chose.

I've found communion with All That Is in Nature, in books like Conversations with God, in philosophical discussions. I may go to Religious Science or Unity or Eckankar a couple times a year, but am always happy for the spiritual options available to me. Dreams are one of those avenues.

Daydreaming led to the soft memory of the massage and snuggle with a man friend the day before, and the gratitude I feel for dear friends to treasure and be treasured by in so many different ways. For instance, the day before I'd talked for an hour and a half with a Vancouver BC man who'd answered my yahoo personals ad. We'd had an animated talk about his book, I Thirst, which told of his years with Mother Theresa, and of his fascination with the stock market, which I share. What was most delightful about the interchange was his range of interests?one wouldn't associate volunteering in Calcutta with being a day trader. He's driving down on April 3rd, and we both hope there's chemistry between us.

While I'm in this state of expectancy, I think of Monday night at 9:00 when I get involved with Ally McBeal characters. I remember the books by my bedside?essays by Robert Fulghum and Maya Angelou, and Anne Fadiman's heartful etudes of praise for books. There are also stories by Zora Neale Hurston, a book of limericks, cassettes of poets, and Hillaby's tapes of his walking Journey Through Britain.

I usually get 10-20 different CDs from the library every two to three weeks, ranging from Opera Without Words (that I hum the tunes to) to Raffi's Everything Grows, which is meant for kids, but so delights me that I bought the Opera and the Raffi CDs to keep. At any moment as I'm at my desk looking to the Sound and the Olympics, I may be listening to Mozart, Cajun music, harp, Broadway musicals, folk or blues.Still content in my reveries, I grin at the memory of introducing a man I'd met, with whom I did not feel chemistry, to my housemate.

They talked for a couple of hours and already feel a real kinship. I love when I have a part in bringing happiness to others. I glow at the thought of Doug and Shay, who I introduced, finding such richness with each other.

I think of the stories each of my seven housemates embody?one with a son, 25, with leukemia, another starting out a new business, a third leaving a job with a verbally abusive boss, a fourth teaching writing and English at three different locations, often coming home at 9:00 at night, a fifth studying and holding a job toward her dream of a career in art, a sixth who will be able to work from the house when three of us are linked through AT&T cable, and a seventh who's dealing with politics at his restaurant job but still shares his wonderful cooking at home with us. One of my roomers said she envisions a hot tub by the deck? and the wood fence would give us privacy?but I tell her it'll only happen if everyone throws in money toward it. I love a hot tub, but dislike maintenance. I tell her to visualize that as strongly as I pictured her living in this house. I love knowing that anything is possible.

At some point, I'm ready to go in. More juice, a lovely talk with a new friend from New York and then I take a walk to the hardware and grocery stores, enjoying the flowering plum trees along the way. Toward bedtime, I see a TV show on eagles that leaves me in awe of their majesty as well as of the photography in different parts of the world. I go to sleep on this Sunday with a heart full of sights, sounds, textures, and memories, delighting in the child's spirit in me that is able to savor this ordinary Sunday.

.Moreah Vestan Communication Trainer, Life Coach, Columnist http://communicationcoaching.

net Author: Pleasures and Ponderings: From Nun to Nudist to Now 206-938-8385.

By: Moreah Vestan

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