Saturday

Saturday, I don't organize account sheets or do taxes or make social 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 radio shows the entire day.

Saturday is a good day because of all that. It's also a bittersweet day. Boots 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 is 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.