Sunday turns out to be cold windy and just perfect for doing nothing. When I say doing nothing this is actually far from the truth. Just nothing that is usually acknowledged as doing something.
The first thing I do is read. Reading is now a difficult thing to do. There is a sense of guilt that accompanies sitting on the sofa in the morning and reading. Shouldn’t I be riding my bike, diving, gardening, working? No I read. It is wonderful.
The book records the opinion of 19th century western visitors, ” The visitor was invariably struck by the absence of arms or incidents of violence, by the unfailing courtesy and friendliness of all classes, by the intelligence of the gentry, and by the absence of thievery among the common people.” Holds true today.
At 2:61 I stop everything and maintain a minute’s silence in memory of the Great Eastern Earthquake. A year ago.
I watch “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid”
I eat lunch.
I clean the dearest thing to my heart – a flute made by Willis and Goodlad between 1826 and 1830.
God bless cold, windy, Sundays