It's Sunday. Spring is trying to creep into the neighbourhood--the trees in the ravine have a hazing of green, the tips of buds opening their tight wrappings--but is dithering. It rained last night. The sun is peeking from and ducking back behind its curtain.
I get a little impatient with Spring's shyness. She should just do it, just shout, ta-da! and leap onto the stage. No one will mind if she performs underwhelmingly. We just want her to get on with it. We've been sitting here waiting long enough.
Uh, so, anyway, it's Sunday, and I'm feeling Sundayish. Fuzzy, blank, wondering how I'll cope with the new comics section of the Seattle Times. (The Seattle P-I folded a few weeks ago; the Times has been gradually integrating the best of the P-I funnies into its own selection. They seem to have kept most of my favourites: Non Sequitur, Pearls Before Swine, etc. They've kept Kelley's favourites, too, Dilbert and Red & Rover. So we're coping.) Like Spring, I'm also dithering: toying with the notion of making another cup of tea and rereading some old favourite, or sighing and finishing the grant application I'm working on, or continue with cutting Hild, or getting back to the story I'm writing about lust, love, and biochemistry. I think I might dither some more. It's what Sundays are for.
It all depends on whether Spring gets over her shyness. If she suddenly runs on stage (I can hear her doing her breathing exercises, reciting her calming mantra) then, hey, I'm out of here: out on the deck and turning my face to the sun.
I hope your Sunday is as exciting as you wish it to be.