Sunday is a favorite day. The dog is curled up on the bed, I’m perched on the couch, the snow falls in the foreground out the front window. In the background the clouds drape the cliffs so that I can see where they start and where they’re going, but not where they finish. A few minutes ago I was pounding on the piano; now I’m chasing the morning’s cappuccino with an afternoon beer. Before the sun came up, someone had delivered both the local paper and the New York Times. There’s some time to write, avoid grading, watch that snow fall. None of the writing is substantial: an idea about using interpretive dance to explain physics, a piece on trees, a few ideas that could make it into “the book,” some final details on the test I need to copy for tomorrow.
For one reason or another, not everyone gets to enjoy the sabbath in this way. I’m grateful that I do.