A Month of Sundays

As a child, the narrator often misinterpreted idiomatic expressions, imagining their literal counterparts which, at times, caused confusion and wonder.

The narrator interpreted idiomatic expressions literally as a child

The narrator was confused by phrases like "beating about the bush" and "talking turkey"

The narrator recalls childhood moments of taking idiomatic phrases literally. When hearing someone mention "beating about the bush," they felt concern for the bushes and when confronted with the phrase "talking turkey," they eagerly anticipated a turkey that could speak human language.

The narrator hoped to experience a literal "month of Sundays" as a child

The narrator fondly remembers believing in the possibility of witnessing a literal "month of Sundays," envisioning an endless succession of restful days. The discovery that the phrase merely signified a long span of time brought a sense of disappointment and the loss of a whimsical dream that every day could be as tranquil as Sunday.

The narrator's aunt frequently used the idiom "a month of Sundays" to convey a very long time

The narrator's aunt would use the idiom when talking with family members

The phrase "a month of Sundays" was a prominent one in the commentary of the narrator's aunt—whether she was gossiping with her ...

In a world where the pace of life never slows down, and to-do lists seem endless, our narrator finds solace in crafting her own version of "Sunday" on any day she chooses. The concept is brilliantly simple and deeply personal—on a day when the weight of responsibilities becomes a little too heavy to carry, she sets aside her tasks and declares it "Sunday."

As an adult, the narrator is unable to devote an entire month to leisure, but creates "Sunday" days when she can

Our story, aptly titled "A Month of Sundays," revolves around the idea that while an entire month of uninterrupted leisure may be a fantasy for many adults, carving out "Sunday" days is not. The narrator realizes that she might not always have the luxury of devoting an entire day of the week, let alone a month, to rest and recuperation. That realization doesn't stop her. Instead, she boldly reclaims her time by deducting it from her schedule as needed, making it a sacred space for rejuvenation.

The narrator sets aside her to-do list and declares a day to be "Sunday"

When the narrator decides that she needs a day of freedom – be it a Tuesday or any other weekday – she simply sets aside her to-do list and grants herself the permission to treat it as her own "Sunday." She embodies the act of putting herself first, insisting that her need for leisure and relaxation is non-negotiable.

The narrator doesn't care if it's actually Tuesday or another weekday - if she says it's Sunday, then it is

The beauty of the narrator’s "Sunday" lies in its fluidity; it's not bound by the pages of a calendar. It is a testament to her autonomy. For her, if a day feels right to be deemed "Sunday," the actual weekday it falls on is of no consequence. This act of self-care and preservation becomes a quiet rebellion against the relentless march of productivity that defines adulthood.

The narrator sees these self-declared "Sunday" days as a way to fit in extra rest and enjoyment

"Sunday" days become more than mere days off—the ...

Kathryn Nicolai shares her serene Sunday routine that encompasses porch-sitting, indulgent bed-making, and the simple pleasures of baking.

The narrator's Sunday begins with a slow, relaxing morning on the front porch

In contrast to the weekday hustle, Nicolai starts her Sunday with no rush, pouring a cup of coffee and bringing a blanket to the front porch. She settles into the porch swing, carefully sipping the hot beverage under a blanket, as a front-row spectator to the dance of light chasing away the morning gloom. She relishes the simple joy of waving to the school bus driver who signals back, a mutual acknowledgement of the dwindling days of the school year. Nicolai describes the ambiance on her porch, which she had tended to the previous weekend, prepping the furniture for such peaceful mornings.

The narrator sips coffee and enjoys the changing weather and scenery from the porch swing

Her observation of the wet sidewalks transforming into sunlit paths while nestled in her porch swing is a treasured part of Nicolai's Sunday ritual. Despite the morning chill, she's practiced in the art of managing a brisk porch swing without spilling her coffee.

The narrator appreciates the small rituals of the day, like waving to the passing school bus

Nicolai's connection to these small Sunday rituals, like acknowledging the passing school bus, enriches her experience. It's the contemplative moments that carve out the rhythm of her day and extend the warmth of human connection.

The narrator takes time to thoroughly make her bed, a habit learned from her mother

Morning transitions into a cozy domestic task as Nicolai turns her attention to making her bed—a habit imbued with the comfort and care learned from her mother. On this self-declared Sunday, the bed is rumpled from a restful sleep, awaiting Nicolai's meticulous touch.

The narrator smooths the sheets, fluffs the pillows, and folds back the covers to create an inviting bed

She dives into the bed-making process: smoothing sheets until they're taught, shaking and positioning pillows just so, and plumping the duvet which she then carefully folds back at the corner. This deliberate folding is a childhood lesson, a touch that transforms the space into an inviting retreat for later in the day, be it for an afternoon nap or evening rest.

This bed-making ritual makes the narrator look forward to returning to her bed later in the day

The satisfaction Nicolai derives from this ritual goes beyond aesthetics. It's a nurturing act that promises comfort and s ...