Sunday Morning by Anna Kingston

8.30 on Sunday morning, the house is almost silent; just the odd creak of it settling, getting comfortable in the early morning sunshine. Hubby’s gone for a motorbike ride, grown-up playing out with his childhood friend, and the children aren’t up yet.

I’m writing in my front room, the window’s open behind me and the world’s waking up.  There’s birdsong, the voice of a neighbour talking to his wife, a car faintly in the distance. I can still taste the luscious toasted fruit bread I’ve just eaten, and the faint breeze through the window is sending little wafts of my mint tea in my direction.

Our cat pops through the window, prowling and purring across the back of the sofa behind my head, her tail tickling my neck.  She slinks around the room, winding her way around chair legs before settling down, Sphinx-like, right in the middle of the room.  Why that particular spot? She often looks up at the ceiling from that viewpoint: is she simply hearing the children stirring, or is there something a bit otherworldly going on that I can’t fathom?

Sunday mornings are special, almost sacrosanct, with that unique feeling of stillness and slowness that doesn’t happen on other days.  It feels like the earth is taking a deep, slow breath, pausing for a bit of its own mindfulness, and we are gently swept along with it. 

In the wake of this earthly, Sunday morning mindfulness I take my cup of tea into the garden where I can feel the warmth of the sun contrasting with the hesitant little breeze. The apple tree is already laden, some of its branches nearly to the ground, and now I’m outside I can hear bees humming nearby, drifting gently between the bramble flowers in the dappled light.

I hear voices and sounds from inside, signalling the surfacing of the children getting breakfast. The spell is broken, that early morning silence of mind and world ended for today; it’s time to move into a different gear, but still at a gentler pace than other days.