Our awkward relationship with a day of the week.
Monday Morning — May 22, 2017
(Two years ago, I was having a seriously interesting Monday morning. A day when all the Mondays in a long line of them, seemed to be crowded into my small study, milling about, shouting over one another and lamenting that Mondays have had a bad rap. That they were innocent of most of the crimes they’d been accused of and were tired of the bad press and false perceptions lingering about them. That they really didn’t care anymore. So, I wrote down how it all appeared and here it is. Something about this morning reminded me of that day. Things have changed but not completely. Don’t know how you feel about Mondays. If they speak to hope and new beginnings for you or just another week. Interesting to find out.)
I woke up anxious. Would today be different? Would I feel the low heat of excitement deep down, rising up slowly, rising to meet the new me, in a new week? I don’t really know. I never do. Old habits die hard, I guess. Old fears linger, gnarled fingers clutching, refusing to let go. It’s not like I hate Mondays. I only dislike what they represent. Something unknown. Something that may rear up and smack me sideways. Mondays are not what they once were, just another day. Just another 24 hours marching past with no other agenda. Having no identity. Possessing no animas…
