Slow-Moving Sunday

I woke up this morning and looked at the clock. 6:00 a.m. Only it wasn't really. It was actually 7:00. Sadly, an hour of my day was gone just like that. I don't know whose brilliant idea it was to have Daylight Saving Time take place in the wee hours of a Sunday. Sundays already go by too fast as it is.

A storm is slowly moving into our area, so skies are gray and imbue the day with heavy resignation. There is much I should do; little I am interested in doing.

It is the only day off that my husband and I share, so we work together to build some planter boxes we had ordered and have been sitting in the living room waiting patiently for us to assemble. It feels good to create, and even better, we now have an excuse to go to the nursery, one of my favorite places to go. We know what we are looking for, but I find reasons to wander, weaving up and down the aisles of greenery. I feel my spirit buoyed by the beauty that surrounds me.

Then it is home again, to plant and eat lunch while watching a bit of The Crown, our latest guilty pleasure. We order our groceries online, one more household responsibility that can be checked off our list, so we can claim that we have been productive. There is laundry to fold and bathrooms to clean, but I stall by writing instead. I have no epic or grand adventure to share, only the tale of a quiet, slow-moving Sunday. Which was exactly what I needed.