Saturday is my favorite day.

When I was younger and lived back east, I loved Saturdays in the Fall. Autumn filled my nostrils with damp, earthy scents of fallen leaves. Crisp, chilly breezes confidently called on me to notice nature’s burnt orange beauty.

Of course, Sunday is what makes Saturday my favorite. Sunday is the buffer that protects the possibilities Saturday presents.

I woke early this Saturday to read and write for hours. I find it easier to be in the moment, knowing that Sunday is there for what else must be done. Chores around the house. Bills to be paid.

I recognize the Sunday buffer indicates worry about the upcoming week. It’s not that I dread Monday, it’s that I perceive less freedom when it arrives (and even before that). Yet I know my perception is fiction. I work for myself and I can arrange my day to be as effective and affirming as any Saturday.

Yet Saturday mornings mean more. I can read, write and ponder. The heater hums and my Sonos sings. Perhaps moment-to-moment immersive mindfulness is more easily manufactured with Sunday’s support.

I can gather knowledge, pursue excellence and later commune with family and friends. Is there more to enjoy?

When my mind drifts and I think of Sunday and the week’s worries, I’m reminded to shift back into the present moment.

It’s Saturday.

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