From SRP author Mark Posey:
Somewhere along the way, Sunday mornings changed. When I was younger, Sunday mornings were for sleeping in after staying up too late the night before. Or for getting things done before Monday rolled around again. Or for feeling vaguely guilty that I wasn’t getting enough done.
Now? Now they’re slower. Quieter. Better.
This morning started with coffee and music in the kitchen while I made smoothies and thought about the garden beds sitting outside waiting to be planted. Tomatoes, potatoes, peppers, herbs. Twenty raised beds this year, which may suggest optimism on my part or complete insanity. Jury’s still out.
Tracy wandered in eventually, and we did what people do after decades together—we talked about three new things, seven old things, and one thing we’d already discussed twice before. Somewhere in there, we probably solved at least two of the world’s problems, though unfortunately nobody was around taking notes.
Outside, spring is finally starting to look serious here in Alberta. You can feel people collectively unclenching after winter. The snow disappears and suddenly everyone remembers they own rakes and bicycles and lawn chairs. Canadians are a hardy people, but by March we’re all one more snowfall away from mutiny.
The older I get, the more I appreciate these small moments. Not the dramatic ones. Not the milestone moments you remember forever. Just the ordinary pieces of a good life quietly stacking up on top of each other. Coffee. Music. A peaceful kitchen. A conversation with someone you love. Plans for tomatoes that may or may not survive my gardening decisions.
I spend a lot of my working life writing about danger, violence, conspiracies, and people making terrible choices under pressure. Which I love, by the way. Thrillers are still enormously fun. But real life? Real life is smaller than that. Softer.
And honestly, I think that’s part of why stories matter so much. We all want excitement on the page or on the screen, but most of us are really searching for recognition. We want to see pieces of our own lives reflected back at us. The relationships. The routines. The moments that seem insignificant right up until the day you realize they were actually the important parts all along.
Anyway, that’s where my head is this Sunday morning. Coffee’s gone. Smoothies are made. And I should probably go outside and figure out where exactly twenty raised garden beds are all supposed to fit.
— Mark