Something sacred happens in the hours between lunch and supper on Sundays. It's as if there's a very respected, very understood "Do Not Disturb" sign just hanging on the door of the day.
Even with a cottage full of family, there's an easy quietness as the grown ups (and even a teen or two) take turns laying down for a bit. The little ones, who are ironically past napping by now, write little notes to their friends about the rattlesnake they saw, or help Grandad fold up the tarp that (mostly) kept everyone dry in yesterday's rainy boat ride.
And it's easy and slow and sacred.
Family reading, family resting, family snacking on what's just available there on the table for grazing.
Families observing Sabbath is an ancient tradition. And while we now normally operate as separate households, today I am feeling all matriarchal and rested in the midst of the gentle presence of all of us, just being.
Just together.
No where to go and nothing to do
except just be here in this sacred space.
There are times when your blessings gather
and you realize
how very much
your cup runs over.
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