there's such a strange feeling brought in by sunday mornings.
it's as if you can feel the calender resetting,
a groggy haze of transition between one row of boxes and numbers
and the next.
the dates themselves adding line-breaks on type-writers,
molding the ever-changing scripts of our lives.
the day gets claimed for resting and resetting -
we recharge with early beers and late lunches
followed by a hefty dose of sweat-pants.
at least 'round here,
"sunday's best" has never been anything classy.
it's paint-stained denim, muddy boots, and over sized thrift store sweaters.
we don't own church shoes or pressed slacks,
because we've never needed ornate buildings to silently give thanks in.
we need the wind,
and the wild,
and the dirt.
we set out with the intention of getting lost,
for the simple joy of the instant that we find ourselves resurfacing on the face of the map.
we give thanks any time that there's nothing between us and the sky
and our wind-chapped faces are covered in smiles and sun.
desert dwellers need the sun.
we greet her daily,
wildly and emphatically as the frozen layers of earth.
sundays are for defrosting.
we bake beneath grandma's home-made quilts,
and in the arms of good love;
thawing enough to ensure growth without cracking our foundations.
"sunday's best" is just a good place to be.
it's a refreshing state of mind in an augmented pace of time,
where we slow down,
and step back just enough to see what really matters
and what never has.
and when the alarm clock howls like a rabid beast come monday morning,
we'll rise reflective and refreshed;
strengthened up to continue driving forth towards the lives we're living for.