Something About Sunday

Sunday is my favorite day of the week.
And I'm not sure why. It just is.
It has been for a long while now, and so much so, that I have suspected an uncanny reason. Like that the air is different or something. Back when I was a church-going person, I believed that I favored Sundays because that was when I got to go to church.
But then I quit going to church altogether. Quit exercising my "spirituality" in that way.
And I still loved Sundays.
I mean, immeasurably more than Saturdays.
When I wake up on a Sunday, I feel different than on any other day of the week.
Tonight as I was walking home in the chilly evening, I really invested some thought into this question -- why do I like Sundays so much?
Think, think, think, think..... and here is what I came up with --
My answer is that it is wrong to try and find a reason!
IT JUST IS!
[I breathed in the crisp January 31st air molecules of Ottawa, which, in that moment were mingled with someone's fireplace wood, crackling away... giving itself to their pleasure and warmth]....
The entire question of trying to figure out why I love Sunday is wrongheaded.
IT JUST IS!
My boots sound different on the sidewalk, as they scrunch salted gravel and ice and snow... different against clean concrete -- IT JUST IS.
The people who wrote the Old Testament felt it was a blasphemy to even pronounce the name of the God they worshipped. And when I recognize that fact, I realize that it would be no different for me to try and define why I like Sunday so much.
I JUST DO.
Some things are killed, in the defining.

And then it came to me -- Sunday is the day I am most there.
And most here. Where I should be.
Just as I came up with that conclusion I was passing a cathedral that once, quite a while ago now, inspired me to bring forth the following poem:

The Good Ones

There is something about a cathedral
that an atheist would admit to.
The good ones, mind.
With stone and spires. Ones with
big bells that ring you awake. Assymetrically
pleasing, and full of candles within.
Hooded people mumbling help.
The good ones have stained glass, and unreadable
things written, these are the ones that inspire
mystery, and a sense that God should live here.
You need smoke from an unseen place.

What are these other buildings made of wood?
Trees. Did Moses ever strike a tree to make
God talk? No.
He struck a rock.

A cathedral is what you need.
What you need is a place so ominous
that you fail to realize that God is indeed there
only because you are.

c. Ciprianowords, Inc. 2008