looking through me

I love Mondays. Or rather, I love the rituals coursing through them.

Mondays are sheet days: as children, we didn’t have to make our beds because Mom washed all the sheets and made all our beds while we were at school. And, though I didn’t really mind making my bed, I knew it was a gift to get that one-day reprieve each and every week.

Those school days are long gone, but on Monday mornings—in my bleary-eyed state—I still leave my bed unmade. A subtle affront to the looming week.

Once home from work, I strip the bed and toss the sheets into the washer. After the dinner dishes are done, I pull hot sheets out of the dryer and delight in slipping into fresh-from-the-dryer pajamas.

Then I turn on music and snap clean sheets through the air, smiling as they parachute down to the mattress. I smooth out the wrinkles, tuck tight corners, fold the top sheet back over the blankets, heave the comforter over it all and plump the pillows.

As I sing along to the music I turn the covers back, so in a few hours I’ll feel like I’m sliding into a hotel bed.

And though the evening is young, I wash my face and choose my clothes and shoes for Tuesday. After every detail has been tended to—all the day’s tasks are completed—I make myself a cup of tea and settle in on the couch for a quiet evening of reading and maybe some writing.

They’re little rituals. But they’re laced with the joy of celebrating small moments and savoring simple pleasures—clean sheets, warm pajamas, carefully curated words to listen to, read and sometimes jot down myself.

Monday’s rhythms help me anchor to my past, relish the present and ease into tomorrow.