The Sunday Times
What makes you human? Sunday, 1.14.24
Sundays. Especially ones like today—nothing special, yet entirely extraordinary. A day full of ‘normal’ moments, coupled with ample time and space to exist fully in them. To be completely present in my own little life and notice how it’s always there, offering lessons on how to be human. A curriculum that requires me to be tuned in, open, and humble. To habitually look up at my experience, find beauty in it, and think ‘this is why I’m here”…no exceptions.
I’m in a transition space, literally and at large. I’m housesitting in the mountains with my trunk full of belongings, before transitioning into my new space. I’m in my late 20s, transitioning from one phase of my life to another as the state of the world changes by the second. By no means is it a bad age to be (exciting and fertile, actually), but you become increasingly aware that life is happening…like right now. Minutes, days, months and years start flying by, which we only get one chance to live. We hope and pray and survive on faith that we’re choosing the best way to spend them. Which is why I choose, every Sunday morning, to be human. Because I am, as we all are, undefinable—because no one has been or ever will be this person I am today. I’m free to simply exist in my tiny universe and find endless love in the human-ness of it. Here, everywhere, always.
I look up at dark, frost-wrapped windows and peel myself out of bed. With a falsa around my shoulders, I shiver towards the kitchen for tea AND coffee—two sources of delight before I’m even fully conscious, because I can. But also because I didn’t sleep so great last night and feel a headache coming on…human. Yoga yoga yoga, always yoga. I write in my journal, set my intention, stretch my body, reconnect with spirit, reunite my breath…take an epsom salt bath followed by a cold shower, and get ready to greet the day.
First on deck is dancing—a community dance that takes place every Sunday, and has quickly/recently become my most favorite thing. So I bundle up and head east, following the pull of joyful movement towards the dance floor. People age four to ninety-four file through the doors, shed their winter layers, and greet their loved ones. They stretch and jump and sway, full of excitement for the unrepeatable and unknown dance ahead. I’m just watching, quietly noticing what’s present in my life, and it’s beautiful. The joy, expression, community, and connection…the tiny sprinkles of god here, everywhere, always.
The music grows, the beat builds, bumps, and slows back down. After everyone has entered and exited their intuitive movement portal, we share a closing prayer, and get on with our uniquely ‘normal’ lives. Two hours of sacred play, then the errands…tiny bursts of magic, that’s how this thing works. I take my experience and all of its insights with me as I journey to the supermarket, picking up gas and groceries before meeting my friends at the coffee shop.
Time expands when you’re there for it, and shrinks when you’re not. The hustle and bustle of errands tested both my patience and my peace, causing me to be late for our coffee date…human. I roll up to the shop and rush toward the building, all caught up in my mind. The thoughts ting-ting-tinging around my skull had shrunk the present moment in front of me so small, that I nearly missed the glorious gift it held. As I near the door, I glance up and erupt in laughter—through the window, my friends are bouncing around like idiots, smiling and waving excitedly, beaming with happiness…all because of my arrival, because I’m loved. Here, everywhere, always.
We follow the gravitational pull into each other’s orbit. They hold the table, I get in line to order. As I wait for my drink, I wonder how many precious, split-second moments like that we lose when there’s always something to do, somewhere to be. So I walk back to the table, sink into my chair, and do exactly what I’m on this Earth to do right now—sit here with the people I love, talk, laugh, and listen to the details of their lives, because I care. Time pops our caffeine-infused, wonderful little bubble, and we all drive home, overflowing with happiness.
I fall into rhythm with the day, sway through the afternoon. I put the groceries away, clean the house, water the plants, cook, read, and write. Loneliness bites at my heels, so I call my brothers, facetime a friend, and I’m cured…human. Brewer, the coonhound laying on the loveseat lets out a looong sigh and throws me old-man-puppy eyes—the trails are calling. We head out the door as the cold air bites our lungs, but the winter sun shares its apricity—an apricot promise in the sky here, everywhere, always.
At the trailhead, I let Brewer off leash and smile. He barrels ahead full of unbridled freedom, nose to the ground, following nothing but pure instinct. He plows up and down the mountainside, chases squirrels, smells absolutely everything possible, and discovers the world anew. As if it these aren’t the same woods he’s wandered for ten years. Frozen leaves and gravel crunch under my shoes as I move forward in awe of a dog being a dog, wondering ‘what would I do?’. How would I handle that? If some force was to reach down and metaphorically unleash me from the ties of my life, what would I run towards? Where would my instincts take me? Brewer’s lead him back to me, and we head home.
Once unthawed and settled in for the evening, it’s kibble and curry for dinner, dark chocolate and sunset for dessert. The sky turns from blue, to pink, to orange, to purple, to dark, and then stars. I continue to ponder freedom and my questions from the woods. Brewer snores on the floor, and I realize it’s bed time. I’m carrying my dish to the sink when it hits me—I’m not a dog, I don’t have a leash. I’m human; I have unending grace, this present moment, and the ability to choose how I spend it. I’m already free…here, everywhere, always. Sundays just remind me.