Sunday morning hasn't unfolded so perfectly in a long time.
Waking up not too early, not too late. Sun streaming through the curtains: another perfect summer morning. Opening the front door to let the morning rush into my flat - I need to be out in this fresh warmth - an early morning run was the perfect way to bathe in the morning's beauty. Every runner I pass wishes me good morning; everyone is calm, content, looking forward to the hours of slow Sunday sunshine that lie ahead.
Fresh, full of energy and pleasantly aching with hunger I sit down to the first summer breakfast of the year: nutty muesli with natural yogurt, sweet juicy pear and perfectly ripe banana. Homemade apricot scones, toasted, with local marmalade or blossom honey. A large mug of tea. Eating slowly, turning breakfast into a sensory experience. Engulfing myself in a new novel, reading each word patiently, re-reading the most exquisite passages; 'A hand takes up the pen, a hand he has kissed, a hand he has known intimately'.
Stopping for these moments, stopping to taste, feel, smell, rather than passing off hurried indulgences as real pleasure: this is what Sunday morning should always be. Unplanned time that I can pass through comfortably and contentedly, wrapping myself up in the safety of the present moment. Too often even these slow Sundays mornings are ridgidly planned out, leaving no space to breathe out, stretch and contemplate the sweet perfection of a fresh blush pear.