It’s Sunday. All my hats are hanging of the
hatstand.
No shops were open when I grew up.
We had a chance to be bored and let the mind
wonder and let the mind be stretched which
would lead into creativity.
No distractions.
No errands.
Just the gentle hum of time slowing down.
In the stillness, we met ourselves—
not the productive self,
not the rushing self,
but the wondering one.
The one who stares at the ceiling and
remembers dreams and was creating dreams.
The one who notices birds and sees the
clouds move by.
The one who feels the weight of quiet.
And maybe,
just maybe,
that was the most healing thing we didn’t plan.
I still try to have those Sundays. I don’t
manage every week, but most weeks.
And maybe
Just maybe
That is actually the most healing thing I do plan all week.
