Saturday, I don’t organize account sheets or do taxes or make Facebook posts for clients or write blog posts (for clients) or do any other freelancing. I’m firm about this.
Saturday, I do laundry and dishes. I make coffee. I do something good and beautiful and close to home, like pruning out the cave I’m making in the holly tree (the holly house), or sheet mulching, or starting the tomatoes.
Or I sketch floor plans for our dream house, the one we’ve been cooking up for so many years I’m embarrassed to say.
Or I make cookies or a soup, or something delicious the leftovers of which we can get other meals out of later. Or I ferment something, like sourdough starter, or yogurt. I listen to music or NPR the entire day.
Saturday is a good day because of all that. It’s also a bittersweet day. The mister is at work; I’m not. The friends are spending time with their families. Not me, again. I’m with the boy, which is good and rewarding, but also not what I’d call society. And, since I spend the week working pretty much round the clock — between the freelancing and the householding, which we juggle — Saturday’s when I have time to remember how much I want that.
So, Saturday is good. It’s lonely. Saturday, I feel satisfaction and beauty. Saturday, I feel great sadness, like the heavy sky over a picnic on a blowzy grey day, when the world is peaceful and the soul awake.
Saturday, heart is heavy.
Heart is heavy.