Saturday mornings are my reset button. After a week of too-late nights and too-early mornings, I revel in the opportunity to curl up under the blankets and wake slowly. Wrapped as much in the lovely, fulfilling stillness of a quiet house full of family as the warmth of my bed, I take my time, only reluctantly exiting my cocoon for the cold reality of the real world. Some linger over coffee at the breakfast table; I linger over dreams and under covers, alternating between sneaking in a few more minutes of sleep and considering the possible items on my to-do list for the day.
Once it’s evident that further sleep is elusive, I throw back the covers and step into the day. By then, I’ve inevitably sketched out a to-do list and formulated the day’s agenda, one that’s flexible enough for the inevitable weekend interruptions. This process, a guilty pleasure that I rationalize by telling myself that I can’t be productive without sufficient rest, is a regular part of my weekend routine.
In the early years of our marriage, my husband, (an inveterate early riser), would wake me, concerned that I was missing out on the best part of the day. It took some convincing, but he now knows that we define the best part of the day quite differently, and that I don’t feel that I’m missing anything at all.
This past weekend was an embarrassment of riches -- two days in a row to start the day slowly, easing out from under the covers and into responsibility. In addition, since it was our choir’s week off, I had plenty of time to putter, something that rarely makes the list during non-summer weekdays.
As my body adjusts to the time change (a process that becomes more challenging with each passing year), I’ll be counting the days until the next luxurious Saturday morning. And if the winds of fall keep blowing, I may be on the lookout for some blankets to curl up under in the meantime.