Widowhood and retirement change this person’s views on weekly life. No longer are there two special days of the week to wait for or avoid. For decades, weekends were the days that held all the things that overflowed from the week. Fun things. Extra work. Chores. Time to think. Time to escape. All of those things wrapped up into two silly little days.
Nightly television programs were like stepping stones to the two days of the week we didn’t have any scheduled. Saturday and Sunday held a rhythmic sequence all their own, and we cherished them. Now, Saturday and Sunday are just two more days inserted into the 300+ days I’ve lived without VST. No meaning or function, they are like all the rest for me. Some days, they are hard to live through.
In the 1900’s, without things like Netflix or YouTube, a person was at the mercy of Saturday or Sunday morning cartoons. With little else to watch, one would be encouraged to actually open the door and see the world outside. Maybe even spend a day in it. Now, we are all easily seduced into hours of entertainment at any time of the day or night. It’s as if the world has turned into the interior of a giant casino. Anything you want to do can be done 24/7. Rhythms I grew up with are gone.
These days, the one constant is the seasons. Thank goodness for the solar ballet, keeping some yearly cycles predictably recognizable. Yesterday, sitting inside my house, the most beautiful day was on display outside. I’ve noticed that my trees, mature and grand, are stretching their buds, getting ready for life, again. It will take a little more time, but, the swelling of the branch tips tells me spring is just around the corner.
Last week, the holiest of time in the Christian faith began with Ash Wednesday. In my state, even the practice of placing a small smudged cross of ash on the forehead is now a distant memory, and ashes are sprinkled on the head. It seems every single tradition we have is being eliminated, all in fear of a deadly virus. At a time when faith is needed the most, it’s being challenged in strange and sad ways. Traditions are being eliminated, leaving many of us wondering what will be left when all the restrictions are lifted. I sat pondering this in my house, as the sun warmed the day.
It was then my something caught my eye at the back fence. A happy little gathering of the cutest kind. The birds have returned. Little ones, big ones. Red breasted robins hopping across the lawn. Little finches meeting up like old friends, deciding who will be lucky enough to move into the high rent district of my two little bird houses. Squawking crows overlooked the entire party. Just like that, the weekend entertainment had arrived on wings. Busily, the new tenants were racing to and fro, carrying little bits of fluff for the new nests. Winterpast slowly comes to life, as the calendar marches on towards March.
Sunshine is great therapy for those of us that grieve. Spring is a time that reaffirms the cycle of new life, after a winter of sadness and grief. There are amazing miracles happening in our own back yards, while we heal. Just open the window and watch. Happiness can surprise you on the wings of new little friends just doing their thing on a beautiful day.