Sunday Morning

It has been a pleasant weekend and It is a beautiful day.  I have yet to encounter any other human being this Sunday morning. My roommates are still tucked in their beds behind closed doors.  With only Saturdays or Sundays to devote to my passion of sleeping late, I  sit in my bed comfortably lost in my thoughts.  I am happy spending time alone in this small upstairs room in this city of trees. A window  looks out across the front yard to the tree-lined street. Another  window  looks  at the roof tops of the neighbors' houses. Outside it is warm and sunny.  Inside the air conditioner hums in the cluttered  room.  Framed sketches hang on the bedroom walls. Collectibles  and white rattan items  dot the room. 



I feel  lazy.  I linger in bed in pajamas, reading a book  with a cup of strong, black coffee in my hand.  I lean back on a pile of  pillows and  put my book aside momentarily to enjoy the glow of the sun that comes through the window.



The book is a dismal read about group dynamics, control issues and people under stress.  A text written in a cold deductive style.  I have seldom seen such reasoning played out in the world of office politics.  I think of the deep breaths, frequent sighs, forced laughter, complaints of headaches and the occasional sobs that I often hear coming from co-workers, worn and frazzled in attempting to overcome the daily stresses.    Those same stresses that I am momentarily rescued from this morning. 



The television  across the room blares the news. "Save Our Streets!" is the theme of  the morning's feature on crime, violence and drugs. I think  of the rising crime and homicides in the metro city  where I work.  So few jobs and so many lay-offs have sucked the resilience right out of people and driven them to live in the streets. In years past I had experienced  anxiety,  panic,and periods of  depression without employment and the feeling of being beaten down and hopeless. 



Gloomy thoughts like these often came  first, on many mornings. As of late, I have had to undertake an  intricate procedure to pull myself together, in order to extract myself from the bed to face another day at work.  Even on this most pleasant of mornings, I remember the nightmares of the night before. I could not sleep. . Lights off.  Then lights back on. Even by four in the morning I was not asleep. My thoughts of  loved ones and friends in bad health, and myself in harms way, more emotionally than physically,  keeps me from sleep.



On this particular late Sunday morning the silence is a refuge.  The silence allows me  time to weed out the anger, the disappointment and the resentment that accumulates during a weeks time. I have said good bye to a friend who has become a mere acquaintance and then transformed in to an absolute stranger.  No definitive end yet, but life is frail and  I must begin to smile again while there is time left and not identify with that which went so terribly wrong. now the sermon to myself is out of way and there will be no lapsing into loneliness. This is a time to develope my  interest - the most recent being the art of letterwritting.   



Downstairs, still in my bare feet, I find cat food in the kitchen cabinet, pour it in a bowl and open the back door. Cat is there to rub up against my leg. He is hungry and goes straight for the food. He has been on the prowl during the night.  I turn back to the kitchen to get him some water.  Somewhere in the distant past, I had wished for a cat but never took the time to pursue the pleasure.  Cat came as a gift. I believe this cat understands me or is it that I have come to understand him?



I walk out to the deck and  sit momentarily watching Cat eat and drink.  I feel relaxed when Cat comes and lays at  my feet. Oak leaves dot the patio and fall into the water bowl even as I  pour  water for the Cat.  I stand and look up at the squirrels on the wires over head and the crows lined up ready  to swoop down and eat what Cat leaves behind.  The samll birds love to dirt bathe in the sand in the front yard.



I decide to make weak warm tea in the English tea pot  that my sister sent for my birthday some time ago. I like sitting still on a weekend and reading a good book. History is my favorite. This time of immobility could also be wisely spent in meditation or prayer, but I might fall back asleep.