There’s something about a rainy Sunday where you don’t actually need to leave the house.
Oh sure, you could leave the house. There are always groceries to get. You could clean out the car.
But you could also get those groceries tomorrow, and the car is always going to be messy anyways, and Monday is lurking around the corner peeking impatiently waving it’s list of things to do and hefting its bucket of stress, and anyways, it’s raining.
We flew in this morning from a quick two night trip, and after a nap, and a proper dog cuddle, my sweetie decided it was of utmost necessity to make home made chicken stock with the leftovers, so now the entire house smells almost absurdly amazing. In between the buckets of rain being dumped in an even blanket like a well experienced cleaner washing the floors, the birds come out and peck at the little bird feeder hanging off of the big white ash tree in the back yard. I don’t know if it’s “get it while you can” or “the rain has past, it’s all clear now”, but it’s almost a meditation to watch them fly in and out while the tree leaves drips the storms leftovers, and the dogs snore in the background.
These are the Sundays I love. Where the silence is too pleasant for music. They are second only to the Sundays where the bunch of us, all three generations, sometimes four, pile into my parents house, early afternoon because no one gets between my mom and her Sunday mornings, and fill the rest of the day well into the night with music, chaos, food, drink, and more chaos. These two Sundays are polar opposites, and they both make my soul happy.
Eventually a sketchbook will come out, and a ballpoint pen because there’s something about rough sketching with a ballpoint that is incredibly enjoyable. My sweetie will almost certainly finish the book she started yesterday. Maybe we’ll do laundry. Oh, I think it started raining again.
Happy Sunday, everyone.