Sundays are the best days of the week.
The day represents so many universal options for celebration, from morning mimosas brimming with fresh-squeezed orange juice, to full-on dress up in your “Sunday Best.”
As long as I have been in this human body, I have had a special Sunday ritual that almost always boosts my morale.
I suppose I feel as if it’s my day. Delving back to childhood, I did not have any pre-conditioned reasons to declare this day so damn special. Sunday was just like any other ordinary, boring day. My mom was a nurse, so most of her shifts included weekends. I’m pretty sure I spent Sundays in the backyard watching bees pollinate apple blossoms.
I don’t stress on Sundays.
Self. Serving. Sunday. Sunday plans are 100 percent intuitive.
Sunday could look like drinking three cups of smugglers brew from my favorite mug, piping hot with heavy cream and honey, while soaking in the tub and reading Steinbeck. Sunday could be cruising the winding, rolling backroads, while listening to classical guitar as the windows, wide open, welcome in the fierce winds of all directions.
On a recent Sunday, my body rose from sleeping and headed toward the backcountry jungle. Luckily, I forgot my iPhone and decided it was fate that it hadn’t made it into my bag.
I felt the heaviness in each leg as I walked along the fire road toward the trailhead at Pupukea Boy Scout camp. My slippers smacked the soles of my feet, snapping with each step. Flip, Flop, Flip, Flop. The rocks underfoot poked painfully through my thin, rubber sandals.
The slightly steep incline from the road to the single-lane track noticeably increased my breathing as I tried not to engage in any negative self-talk. A cooling breeze grazed my back where I had begun to sweat, and I noticed the heaviness in my legs had dissolved. Light pink oval berries, resembling cranberries, littered the trail, giving off an aroma of fermented fruit.
Moss-covered rocks shielded the trail on one side, and I carefully scanned for placement of each foot as to avoid getting tangled by swirling tree roots. The blanketed silence, in combination with my hiking cadence, created a walking meditation that led me into a clearing where I found a quiet space for contemplation.
Only in this magically quiet jungle did I realize just why I love Sundays.
I take inventory of what need is closest to my heart, and I listen to an inner calling to lead me there.
This looks different moment to moment, and each Sunday, I learn by asking myself, “What is it that I need most today?”