A Slow Sunday Morning

"Clocks are slow on Sundays." — Truman Capote

Welcome to The Autumn Chronicles, a place to shine a light on all the wonder around us as we navigate the seasons. I hope these writings allow you to sit quietly with a cup of something warm and comforting and take a few moments for yourself away from the rush and hurry. If you would like to make sure you get all newsletters directly to your inbox, please subscribe below. Thank you for being here. All photos © The Autumn Chronicles.

It is Sunday and I crave stillness. I awaken to the pale light of a spring morning streaming through the edges of the blind; tiny flecks of dust, caught in my peripheral vision, dance in a sunbeam to a melody that is audible only to them. The lingering cadence of the working week thrums in my chest like a drumbeat, the remnants of a nervous system that has not learnt to rest. My body is heavy, slack with sleep and the warm, comforting weight of a small black cat who has chosen me as his eyrie. I tickle his ears and he stirs languidly, paws outstretched as if in supplication, a plea for his slumber to remain undisturbed. Eventually he rises, leaping in a graceful arc from my body to the floor and I follow, stuffing one foot and then another into slippers that have been haphazardly strewn by the bed.

I clean my teeth, my senses slowly awakening from their nocturnal dormancy. Padding downstairs, I stumble over a basket of cat toys that has mysteriously moved from where it was placed the night before. I kick it gently to the side as both cats circle my ankles, desperate for me to open the back door. This is our daily routine but on Sundays we move slowly, without the haste or obligation that comes from schedules and deadlines. I collect a blue fleecy blanket from the pile on the sofa and turn the key in the door, opening the inside to the world beyond. I fill the kettle with water and leave it to boil as I sit on the blanket in the middle of the lawn, the early morning sunshine enveloping me like an aura.

My mind is restless, so used to action and duty that it struggles to recognise the quiet I am offering. I place my palms on the grass and take a deep breath, filling my lungs with air that is rose-scented and pleasantly warm. I exhale, breathing out the stresses of the week just gone: worry over the health issues of much-loved family members, the rude message from a colleague that irritated me for days, the long commute, the train delays, and the daily exhaustion of dealing with chronic illness, fluctuating hormone levels and learning to live in a body that no longer feels like your own. I wait for my muscles to release and the bone-deep tension I carry to dissipate as I focus on the hush of the garden in this liminal time before the day demands my full attention. I look down at my arms and see constellations of freckles there, emerging from their winter hibernation as a barometer for our entry into the light half of the year.

I have noticed over the past few months that my attention span is dwindling, my mind blurred and unfocused with limited capacity for ease. I have lost myself in the me I give to others and I find that the road back is unmarked, unclear and, at times, unstable. These moments of stillness, of solitude, are a way of reclaiming my power and of reigniting the spark of myself that has been doused by the flood waters of life. I sit for a few moments more, enjoying the warmth of the sun on the nape of my neck and letting the light permeate my skin, burying itself deep within my veins.

I feel rooted, my existence validated in this place of safety and belonging. I turn my face to the sky, spine stretching upwards like a flower reaching for the sun. The soft fleece of the blanket caresses the backs of my legs as I gently sway with the breeze. One of my cats rolls onto her back, all four legs in the air as she abandons herself to the quiet joy of the garden. ‘This is what matters”, I tell myself. These moments of nourishment that serve to enrich, that exist with no expectation other than the permission to just be exactly as I am: not a wife, not a cat mum, not a daughter, sister, friend, manager, employee or any of the other labels I carry.

Just a soul sat in a garden, basking in the radiant light of spring.

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