Monday again. You know you’re singing that song. Or maybe it’s Rainy Days and Mondays. Perhaps You Can Kiss Me on a Monday? Why are there so many songs about Monday? Where is my coffee? And why is it smiling?
Every day of the week seems to have its own personality. Monday is grumpy. It’s the crabby receptionist at the front desk. If you can pay your dues and get past her, the rest is downhill.
Tuesday is awkward. It just doesn’t know how to be a real day at all. You forge forward, just happy to have gotten past Monday unscathed. No one ever wrote a song about Tuesday. That’s not entirely true, but can you name one without Googling it?
Wednesday is the middle child. You can’t quite see Friday, but you’re far enough in to have forgotten Monday. Wednesday shrugs off the worst of the week. Its happy-go lucky and you’re glad it shows up every week.
Thursday is serious. This is the day that you have to get things done, because Friday comes to town tomorrow, and you know you can’t get anything done with him around.
Friday is the party guy. He’s magnetic. Every day wants to be him. He shows up with a smile on his face and a six-pack under his arm. He lets you get away with things the other days of the week would never dream of.
Saturday is easy-going. Ask Saturday what it wants to do, and it’s going to say it doesn’t care; whatever you want to do. Free love and macrame. Work boots and blisters. Hammocks and wine. Errands and grilling out.
Sunday is unpredictable. You walk on eggshells around that one. She teeters between lazing around the house in pajamas and angrily preparing to meet Monday head on.
So today is Monday, and I’m gritting my teeth behind a fake smile, ready to meet her head on. I’m showered, dressed, fully present, and determined not to let her get me down. I’m going to greet her and however she responds is going to roll off me like water off a duck.
We can do this, people.
Peace . . .
“Earth knows no desolation. She smells regeneration in the moist breath of decay.”
– George Meredith, 1828-1909, English novelist and poet
Is there any better metaphor for faith than spring? Whether your faith rests in God, Nature, Love or Self. The proof that life emerges after strife — indeed, because of it — is ever present in the warmth of spring.
Peace . . .
Typically, the pinnacle of my day is a very small thing. Like putting my toes in the grass for the first time since autumn.
I nearly missed the park, and when I saw it, I took the last turn into the parking lot. It was a one-way in the wrong direction, but the park was nearly abandoned and no one honked or even noticed. The breeze blew chilled across the icy lake, but the sun was warm between dark blue clouds. Ducks’ wings whistled overhead, and something splashed in the open water along the shore.
Drawn to connect, I smiled an impish grin. I looked left, right, then back, before I slipped off my first leather shoe. The other shoe and both socks followed. In seconds I was barefoot in the park; skin to skin with Mother Earth. The ground was cold and the moisture seeped up to make mud on my heels. But it felt real, like putting my face against the rain, or catching snowflakes on my tongue.
It wasn’t too long before I was back in traffic headed home to make dinner.
But I was reminded that sometimes it’s the last turn in the wrong direction that brings us down the right path.
Peace . . .
We shall never know all the good that a simple smile can do.
I hope Mosh’s smile did some good for you.
For other posts bound to make you smile, visit The Daily Post Weekly Photo Challenge: Smile
Peace . . .
“Good things come in small packages” is another one of those adages my Gramma spoke to me often. Tanaka Tatsuya has been bringing this to life for over five years. You can check out his website Miniature Calendar, but the real fun doesn’t start until you follow him on Instagram.
I love it when people challenge me to change the way I see ordinary things.
Peace . . .
The horns honked every Saturday, sometimes driving around the block right by my house. Wedding couples waved from the back seat, with streamers and tin cans sailing in their wake.
The church stood at the entrance of our neighborhood, as much a playground for us children as it was a place of worship. Baptisms, funerals, and all forms of life events in between took place beneath its roof. And on Saturdays, the expected cachaphony of honking horns was as common as the chirping of birds.
Many wedding traditions have their roots in superstition, and the making of noise is one of them. It was thought that the loud clanging of cans trailing behind a carriage and even church bells would scare evil spirits away from the newlyweds. Eventually, the practice became an expression of celebration.
These days limousines are more common than tin cans hanging from the bumper, and it’s been a long time since I’ve heard the honking horns. My guess is that the racket brought more evil spirits out of neighboring homes and business than it ever scared away. As for me and my chums, we laughed and waved and imagined someday riding in the back of the noisy getaway car.
Peace . . .
I wore a brightly-flowered skirt and matching blouse to my father’s funeral. Immediately upon entering the church I knew I was inappropriately dressed. I’d forgotten funeral etiquette. After giving birth two months earlier, I had nothing to wear that fit, and I’d gone shopping in a haze.
When I tell this story, most friends usually try to comfort me and say I chose something that would make my dad smile. Actually, if he was looking down, Dad would have thought my skirt terribly unbefitting. Yet there I was, in front of the whole congregation competing with the alter gladiolas.
I made no apologies, and to this day chuckle at the misstep. I was young, consumed by grief, drunken with hormones, and a mother of three. If anyone was allowed the mistake, surely I was.
There may be five common stages, but we all move through grief at our own pace and in our own way. There’s no right way to grieve. It’s a personal thing. Even when faith, culture and etiquette dictate one right way to mourn, it’s crucial we show self-compassion and honor whatever it is that helps us to heal.
By accommodating our own process, it affords us the ability to do the same for others. It may be easier for us to feel empathy for the one who cries than for the one who didn’t attend the funeral. Yet, it’s entirely possible that the one who didn’t show feels such pain they can’t leave the house. It’s possible the one who is angry has hurtful regrets. It’s possible the one who makes jokes is afraid.
We can’t know what stories are deeply buried in another’s heart. Sometimes we scarcely know what’s in our own.
May we feel deeply for all affected by death and open our hearts to love and compassion for their healing.
Peace . . .