There’s a different quality about Sunday. Compared to the other days of the week, it’s softer and less hurried. I hear the rhythmic tick of the clock and the occasional sounds of my home settling in for a quiet, winter day.
My kids are still asleep as I scoop Earl Grey tea into an infuser and pour hot water over the leaves. Steam and the smell of orange citrus cause me to breathe in deeply. After my tea has steeped, I head to my desk and settle into the chair.
It’s cold this morning, so I wrap a blanket around my legs as I open Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own. They’re just words on a page, but they mean so much to me. I get lost in the melody of her sentences and the power of her ideas.
Reading feels different on Sunday. I wrap my hands around the hot mug and smile. I’m glad I have this moment in my life.
