The week is nearly over though I’m convinced it just started.
It’s funny how much quicker time seems to go by as we get older. Our days are so packed to the brim with appointments and deadlines and all that other boring adult stuff that we don’t have the time to stop and take note of the tiny, wonderful moments in our lives.
The sound of a choir singing together brings to mind harmony, exaltation, a blissful sound.
It is uplifting and joyous. It can move us emotionally and with great power. What happens when the choir sings off key? We are startled by it. We are uncomfortable with it. We look forward to when it ends.
It is early spring, and it’s raining ferociously.
Beyond the raindrops dotting my window the crown of a cotton wood slaps in the wind. I feel crampy but I am happy to have a warm spot to curl up with this pain and a glowing light to read by. My toes are toasty under the duvet. From my cushy perch I watch the daytime storm. The raindrops cling to the window pane, then glide down whenever new ones bump them off. The window is pushed up a little and through the opening I hear the giant tree swoosh and the occasional rain spatter. I can smell the clarity and freshness the wet brings to the air outside.
I don’t know if I’ve ever met someone who likes Mondays. If you do, hats off to you, but I think you’re one of the very few. My favorite day of the week is Thursday, but that’s a story for another day.
Most Mondays I wake up exhausted after a fitful night’s sleep. I always seem to have trouble turning my brain off on Sunday nights and do more tossing and turning than anything else. I also usually spend any free time I have on Monday running errands I didn’t get to over the weekend. It’s not a great way to start the week, so I’ve recently started a Monday night ritual that helps me settle a little better into the workweek.
Perhaps it is the glossy pictures in magazines or the romantic gondola rides featured in films that romanticise Venice. Yet, as I meandered across the canals of the city of water, I struggled to find the romance or beauty in the maze of streets.
So, on my second night in Venice while the setting sun drew in to the clouds overhead, I entered St. Mark’s square. I nurtured the hope of drawing away from the bustling tourist-packed passageways that ran like veins through the city.