Dear John,

Drizzling rain and blustery wind are making their presence known beyond my bedroom window. I left it open last night and this morning the room feels damp and raw. 

I roll over and groan. Rainy Sundays are a mixed bag. On one hand, they inspire me to dig into projects I’ve been putting off, the ones that leave a delicious sense of accomplishment when all is said and done. On the other, they conjure childhood memories of having to stay inside on the last day of freedom before the commencement of what felt like a never-ending school week. 

“Sunday Night Blues” is a real thing… a vague feeling of despair embedded deep in the psyche. 

After feeding our squawking kittens, then the goldfinches and blackbirds waiting at the feeder, I sit down to enjoy a hot cup of tea. This is the time of day when my mind loves to make a list of all the things that need tending – laundry, vacuuming, bathrooms, bill-paying, this blog. But today, I choose to listen to a new visitor – one that’s been calling more frequently over this past year. It’s the voice that says, rest.

I sit back, stare out the window at the branches swaying in the bold, southeast wind; at the mist floating through the fields; the birds fighting for a place at the table. With age comes wisdom. So much of what we stew over can wait. And wait it will.  

Consider this permission to rest.

Love,
Cheryl

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