Sundays at my house have always been an odd mix of quiet and nostalgia, with a small undercurrent of anxiety. As a little girl, they were framed by the ritual of Sunday school and last minute homework, against a backdrop of oldie songs and cooking spices. To this day, the songs of Skeeter Davis, Tom Jones, and Nat King Cole still conjure up the tantalising aroma of simmering beef stew, and the vision of my mother bustling around our small kitchen.
As I got older, the slow-drumming anxiety turned to dread. Sundays now signalled the beginning of another work week to endure. And as I braced myself for customers, bosses, and managers who were decidedly determined to be displeased, I missed the gentle beauty of the transition from one week to another, the potential of a second chance. Instead, I kept a worried eye on the clock, constantly measuring the nearness to Monday.
Then, a year and a half ago, I started to blog. I needed an outlet for my feelings, a way to capture beauty, to reminisce, to analyse - something to focus on besides the sadness of work. And to my surprise, the unfolding vibe was a Sunday one. Not the 'work Sunday' but the one of my childhood. The one of stillness, introspection, wistfulness. Somehow, through blogging I'd found a way to weave these gossamer threads together and knit for myself a softer Sunday.
Creativity and online community have been the spark of light in a sea of darkness - the one pure, untainted thing to turn to when the rough edges of my life are bruising. I flip on my Kindle and through the blogs, podcasts, and social media feeds of likeminded creative souls, find comfort and inspiration. They gently bevel Sunday's edges and give me hope that some day - maybe as early as 2017 - there will be nothing left to endure, and that the full sweetness of Sunday will be mine to savour.