Is it Sunday?






Marin County, California


Is it Sunday?  We drove over the green hills spinning threads of gold grass on our way to Marin County to run errands. The cows napped in expanding circles in the fields. We stopped to watch a hawk hover above her hunting ground waiting for prey. We drove a county road whose main use seemed to be for local ranchers. 
Vultures floated in the sky circling patiently waiting for road kill.

Over the golden hills, we parked the car at the shopping center, choosing to walk to our errands instead of drive. My partner studied his map picking out the best route. Walking through town, I could feel the melancholy. It was not emanating from us. I know that feeling all too well from past "emotionally dead"  relationships and lazy weekends with sports droning in the background.  Words unspoken hanging in the thick air permeating the house.  This melancholy was hanging over the half abandoned strip malls and neighborhoods in Marin. Empty businesses. Restaurants with hand painted signs almost pleading "take out" with no one in line or parked out front. The town seemed almost empty except for a small group of Trump supporters carrying heavy American flags, some wearing masks, most were not, standing on the downtown Novato street corner screaming and shouting excitedly as an occasional driver honked driving through the intersection. We headed in the opposite direction not wanting to engage or be exposed to people not wearing protection. That didn't make much of a difference as we figured out continuing our walk down main street, almost half of the locals were wearing their masks around their neck or under their noses. As we kept walking, I watched people run common errands to the bank and grocery store, composed to themselves, masked heading from point A to point B. No interactions except for business.

We found a pedestrian walk over a small bridge. We stopped to lean against the bridge and gaze at the creek. We watched a small white egret wading in the slow current. She took off, flying low, heading downstream. Our presence clearly bothering her.

Finishing our errands. I turned to my partner and said "It feels like Sunday. Everyday feels like Sunday now."  I have to admit I am losing track of time. I repeatedly look at the calendar to check days of the week. One day runs into another. There seems to be no discerning personality or character to any particular day.

The melancholy has now attached itself to me. I try to shake it off as we head home. I watch the painted horses and smell their scent as they pass by my car window. I search for wildflowers between the tall grasses. We pass by a favorite lake. We search for the elegant white swans. We see them. They are floating on the mirror of ripples, the pair cuddled together embraced in sleep.

Maybe it is not melancholy, I am feeling.

I am mistaken. Maybe I am feeling what quiet feels like. What peace is. 
I  have been programmed and numbed into an anesthesia of noise and human distraction. I have forgotten the deepest of my true nature. The silence within.








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