Sunday growing up in Washington, D.C. was a family day. We spent the day at my grandparents in the summer, barbecuing on the patio and dining outside or in the winters, enjoying a Sunday dinner in the dining room with pies and other desserts. When we visited my father’s family in the South, Sundays were all about the big meal midday then driving off in the country to visit relatives in the afternoon. You didn’t need an invitation. It was just kind of an expected thing to see visitors on Sundays. When we grow up and get off on our own, far away sometimes from our family, Sundays can feel a bit restless. We are in charge to plan the day. We can long for that Ten of Pentacles feeling where someone else was in charge and we were just invited to the party. In time we begin to make friends that become our extended family and tribe. We blend some of our old rituals with new ones that we have made along the way. But I will always remember the Sundays so long ago.
“Do not let Sunday be taken from you. If your soul has no Sunday, it becomes an orphan.” Albert Schweitzer