Writing about Monday, and maybe especially knowing I will be writing about Monday, is becoming almost cathartic. That first morning of the work part of the week is always difficult, especially in the dark and cold. The work of the day seems a bit like drudgery: re-stocking, cleaning up, running errands, prepping food for the week, putting life back in a general sense of order, thinking through the pack of days ahead and all that needs to be arranged and accomplished. But I also feel a return to order, and there is a goodness in that.
And there is, on Monday, the chance to offer up the week again. Not in the reflective, quiet way of Sunday. Monday is more desperate, more needy. It is more alone, more weighted. The pressures crowd in again and yet... there it is... the posture that is needed on Monday...open hands. Cupped hands. This is what you have given me? This is my lot? My day? My work? This is what you have for me? It is all Yours. I can do this for you, and when I offer it up I can release any hold I have over it as well. Take it away, take it all away and I am still here, loved and cherished and in the only Presence that brings fullness of joy.
The lines have fallen for me in pleasant places. You have set my feet in a broad place. I am not controlled by expectation, by accolades, by pressure, by competition, by discontent, by need. I am a cupped hand, an offered up hand. The Mondays will come and go but I can always come back to this place again and again.
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