Sunday longing

August 20th, 2023

I don't have time to talk. I am busy, you see. I have got things to do, places to go, and issues to resolve. I don't have time to think about myself, and I don't especially have time to talk to my soul during the week.

But come the weekend, and especially on Sunday — then, when everything is taken care of, when the inertia of apathy spreads over the whole world in the afternoon on Sunday in August, then I will have time.

Because there will be nothing better to do. I am careful about having nothing to do on Sunday, especially on Sunday afternoon. Here I almost believe in God and his idea to rest on the seventh day.

And so I have time, the time I dreamt of and hoped for during the busy week. And there is nothing that comes to mind to talk about, except to plan for next week and next Sunday — to then have time for my soul.

But, like clockwork, there is a time on Sunday afternoon when again I am busy with exercising, reading, or watching — with anything to occupy my time and my mind — when this particular longing starts:

It can be brought by a rustle of leaves in the wind that I catch by glancing sideways, it can be brought by a flow of water in a stream I walk by, it can be brought by a movement of turning a page in a book in my lap.

Musing stops and reverie starts. I look at some point suspended in the air somewhere in front of me. It feels foggy-like and it gets very quiet. I feel I am right on the edge of understanding and meaning of the deepest and best-guarded secrets and the moment passes…

And then I am off to be busy again, with a hidden longing for another opportunity of time on Sunday afternoon.