Why is it that Mondays can never decide exactly what they want to be?
For instance: my morning started very unwillingly with a heavy-handed tap on the snooze button, my stomach upbraiding me (probably for last night’s red curry), and several attempted excuses to justify skipping my run. However, logic, guilt (and habit) rolled me onto my feet and to the treadmill where I eked out an unhappy two miles, then into the first articles of clothing- slightly rumpled but otherwise clean- that came to hand. But somewhere between the scrambled eggs and the last-minute assignments (and in spite of a stunted attention span) the day has already improved vastly.
Perhaps it’s the earl-grey tea, Max Richter’s score from Testament of Youth, or the happy atmosphere of the Grind–the volume;s steady swells with the arrival of each smiling face. Maybe it’s the pride of completing work I enjoy, or merely completing anything. Then again it could be each of these, indelibly intermixed by the sunlight that comes slanting through the windows throwing shadows across the floor in some sort of elysian perfection whispering “Peace, be still.”
I’m perfectly cognisant of the fact that this could all dissolve again into the foul funk that initiated my day, but I’m also aware of the human capacity to remain content and joyful despite circumstantial temptations to do otherwise, as well as its power to change and control thought patterns.
Happy Monday, all.