Sunday Mornings

So, it is Sunday morning. And it is quiet. I’m in my bedroom and the only sound I hear is the cool air coming through the ceiling vent. When you live in Atlanta, and it is July, that is one of the most beautiful sounds to hear.

Most Sunday mornings for most of my life was spent in church. At times, I’ve wondered if I might have been born in church even if my birth certificate says some hospital in Baltimore. Somewhere in my late thirty’s, my church attendance had severely fallen off. If I had the ability to step out of myself and really see myself objectively, I would have seen this coming. Years before that, I had stopped hanging onto every word that the preacher said, and more importantly, realized that nothing bad happened to me if I didn’t. Obviously, this would affect what one would do on a Sunday morning.

This particular morning I feel good. The last few days, I’ve been upset off and on by a variety of happenings not worthy of the stroke of a pen. Ok, who am I kidding? I took my pen and wrote all about it -angrily, aggressively, hopelessly and tearfully. On and on I wrote, but at some point, I turned the corner. I had to. Just let it go.

When I wake up feeling this good, I try to hold on to it as long as possible. After all, it is Sunday morning. I don’t have to be bothered today. I can easily put myself in time out away from people, place and things –a joy easily afforded to me as one who is single. Of course, this also means staying away from all forms of media with its weird interpretations of life. So why not cook, write or both? John Gunther said that all happiness begins with a leisurely breakfast.

This Sunday morning, I fix French toast and bacon. I make the French toast from the wheat bread I just bought from the DeKalb Farmer’s Market. The bacon, I cook in the oven which makes life easier for me and enhances its flavor. I top the French toast with fresh blueberries, half a sliced banana and some cinnamon maple syrup. I pour a little orange juice into a small glass. I brew some Kenyan coffee, also from the farmer’s market.

I sit at my kitchen table in silence and slowly enjoy every morsel. I look at my balcony. I should get some pansies for the balcony planters. I’ve had this thought since March. There are a number of planters sitting on my deck. Some are stacked and empty and others are full of dirt or full of weeds. It’s an organized mess. I shift my eyes away from that project because I am in time out. I look at this tree that begins just outside my back door and whose branches fully extend over into my balcony. It then continues up to the third floor and obstructs my view of the courtyard from my bedroom window.

On many Sunday mornings I’ve thought about this tree. I remember when the tree didn’t and couldn’t reach the second floor. When I moved into this new community over five years ago, I was aware of the tree but didn’t think much about it. It was nothing to me. It was just like all of the other trees in my community. I would often think how sparse, how insufficient and how poor the greenery of this place. They should have done a better job in planning. But that was my perspective then and I was fully ignorant. I didn’t take into consideration time and it is always a great revealer.

So, it is Sunday morning. It isn’t so quiet anymore. I’m back in my bedroom. There is the sound of the air from overhead, the laundry rhythmically swishing back and forth, and of course, the talking tree.