It’s been a while, I understand. However, as silly as it
might seem, I’ve had very little to say on any matter in the silent times that
have been. My problems are repetitive, and I’m sure no one really wants to hear
them. The joys in my life are small and a little silly, so I decided that no
news might well be good news for you all.
But, elongated silence might well lead you to believe that I
had given up my writing altogether, which (unfortunately for some) is not the
case.
I am on the brink of a change, great change in my life. I have left my job, for favour of pursuing my interest in psychology. New job opportunities await, new people, new
friends, a new life. This of course will go along with the already made changes
of a new house, a new hair colour and a new outlook on men (having finally taken
the advice that they’re all knob-heads seriously (sorry guys)).
As well as being full of the new, change often means leaving
behind things you’ve held onto in the past. Letting people, things, habits,
choices and lifestyles behind that you had thought were you, but cannot be
encompassed in your new life in a healthy way. And saddening as that
realisation is, you must let go of some of your past in order to obtain your
future. You will, in the long run, benefit from your choices – and it is the
knowledge of this that will bring you through the sacrifice.
However, I’m not here to talk about the morbid issues. I am
here in fact, to talk about Sunday afternoons.
Sunday afternoons, all my life have held particular
importance out of the week. As a young child, Sunday afternoons would be bath
night, a night I would despise and make torturous for all those around me. Much
screaming, futile resistance and inevitable crying would take place as my
parents in turn attempted to wash and comb the tangled mess of my hair. To make
up for that, my father and I would often spend the day out together, on the
beach or in the woods, and get fish and chips on the way home, and then he
would wash my hair, and begin the arduous task of brushing, and the older I
got, the less I moaned.
When I came to Dorset, Sunday afternoons would be spent
collecting my mother from the pub,
sitting at the polished wooden bar with the regulars, eating the left over new
potatoes and drinking the watered down pub coke. On occasion, I would spend the
whole afternoon there, helping lay tables, polish cutlery, moaning that I was
bored, and eating Sunday lunch, always with a healthy portion of ice-cream
afterwards.
Nowadays, I very rarely do anything on a Sunday afternoon.
I’ll sleep in late, rise and dress sloppily – comfy jeans, untamed hair, no
makeup and loose t-shirts being my own personal definition of sloppily – and
I’ll sit around on the Internet for a few hours, pretending to find things of
interest that I’ve already read 10 times.
Summer Sundays hold a particular charm – the lazy sun that
lingers through the long evenings, casting golden glows in the halls of my new
house. Reclining on the sofa, knitting, an LP playing, my mother practising base
and my family chatting and going about their evening. Preparations are made for
the evening meal, my mother usually having slaved over it, though it is rarely
a typical roast dinner, usually some sort of model around it instead. We all
sit together and eat these days, which I love. And sometimes, afterwards, we’ll
sit around and play a board game (which I pretend to hate but really I love) or
even dance, around the living room, my mother and I, eliciting odd looks from
the boys of the house on occasion.
And even when the evenings turn grey and the chill descends,
when we’re all huddled in blankets around a large fire; even then, Sundays hold
this rosy glow of warmth, through the shared smiles and moments.
In these shared moments is the best place to experience the
feeling. I can look back on previous Sundays, on this here grey one, and see
the glow and feel the warmth of the memory only to an extent. The best place to
live these memories, is inside the moments that create them, which is why I cannot
fully express or describe the feeling to you – only you would be able to live
in your moments and understand the feeling, but would struggle to create an apposite
description for yourself either.
I spend Sunday nights, when I’ve said goodnight and finally
gone up to my room, much like any other night; I lie awake and think for many
hours – sometimes browsing the Internet, sometimes listening to music,
sometimes writing and sometimes sketching – but when I’ve exhausted these
activities, and finally laid down, I spend many more hours lying awake in the
dark and pondering things – Life, the universe, everything, whether jellyfish
have a singular, advanced consciousness, or whether they’ve simply a primal
functioning. Sometimes, my brain produces thoughts in a manner not unlike
creating quotes, or simple lines that aren’t all that simple at all. For instance,
Last Sunday, I had a thought that made quite the impression;
Life is about creating and living in the moments that take
our breath away. It is in that exact circumstance that life is measured.
This may have already occurred too many of you – it may
simply be that I’m late in catching up with this idea, but I remember being a
little awestruck when I thought of it, for one reason among many. This reason
is that I’m often looking for a way to measure the success of life, but unlike
someone, who view financial stability or great career achievements or amazing
academic progress, I’ve always deemed my success to come from experiencing
love, in all it’s wonderful formats. But I realised then, that I had found a
better measurement – the moments which take your breath away. The sort of
moments that make lasting beautiful memories, big or small. The moments that
leave you in awe. I realised then, that as well as waiting for these moments to
happen, you can take part in creating them.
Spending time with your family, taking that walk in the afternoon,
sitting on the roof in that thunderstorm (sometimes ill advised but I certainly
enjoyed it!), saying yes to that date, dancing/leaping/laughing/running in the
rain – Because even if it ends horribly, even if it’s terrible and you feel you
made a horrible decision, and you’re stood there at the end soaking wet and
sniffling – you gave chance to a moment that otherwise wouldn’t have happened –
you created a moment, you have that story to tell at dinner parties, where
people will laugh and forfeit their own silly stories.
These moments, usually, aren’t all as “extreme” as that –
sometimes just a lovely Sunday afternoon is a moment in life – a memory that
will stay with you through your time.
This may all seem terribly naïve, but I certainly know
people whom don’t allow these moments, or even don’t appreciate them fully –
but you should, you know who you are, and you should create as many moments as
you can. Because you’ll end up as the boring person with no stories to tell at
the party.
P.S. I am fully aware that the song is "Sunny afternoon" and not "Sunday afternoon" but you'll have to deal with it, as I couldn't think of another song that seemed to fit.
