Monday is much maligned. It gets a bad name for creeping up on you. No sooner has Friday evening delivered you safely into the bosom of the weekend high, than Sunday night churns out its forlorn presentation of Monday's looming low (whether or not you have a herd of cattle to fodder of a cold winter's morning).
Today was a Monday which happened to have the honour of being the shortest day of this year. A day of frost, a cold blue sky, and a golden yellow sun. The day which turned the year - started us back again on the road to light, leaving dark, in the eternal cycle of nature's balance of contrast.
It was for that reason, no doubt, amongst a few others of note, that today was a beautiful Monday. So much so, in fact, that I have, on reflection, completely revised my view of Mondays. From this day I will hold the view that Monday is a lovely day. It will even compete with the beloved Saturday of my youth.
Here's the first thing (coexisting harmoniously as the last thing): Monday night. Here I am, writing, philosophising, whatever. And it's usually Monday night that makes this pleasure possible. Yes, there is the fact that the freedom of the weekend may bring to mind most of the material for the philosophy, but it is usually loyal Monday night, untainted by appointment or worldly need, which gives its time to you, and you alone. Invaluable thinking time.
On top of that tonight, with the sun set on the shortest day, and simply just to grace and honour the passing of the longest night, this Monday produced a twenty-five precent waxing crescent moon, in a clear black sky, as beautiful and as crisp as any ever presented over Galway.
Here's a second thing: If Sunday night has a problem with the view of Monday morning looming large, like a spoilsport to end the weekend's fun, then Sunday is the day to blame for that really. Monday is our safe landing from the weekend's festivities (perhaps excesses), life-giving though they are.
On top of that this morning, white frost entertained us no end, as it playfully slid several cars back down the hill outside our window. How the kids laughed, kneeling on the sitting room couch in their pyjamas, to see such sport. And how late we all were for school and work as a result.
And a third thing: At work on Mondays there is a work camaraderie like no other day. The shared stories of the weekend wonders. The talk about the songs. About the excesses. And a shaking of heads in surrender to the week, making like 'right-so ... lets-get-down-to-it-again'. Then greeting Monday lunch time like the arrival of a true friend.
On top of that this lunch time, I phoned my sister back (after six missed calls from her) to learn that she had got engaged: proposed to on bended knee by the Dane she loves ... while perched on the old horse-drawn mowing machine ... in the haggard at the back of grandad's old house ... where it's been since as long as we can remember ... waiting patiently for another day of glory ... like this short, sweet day ... this Monday.
On top of all that this evening: coming home. A Christmas coming. Jelly being made in funny-shaped, colourdy containers. Dinner - a casserole, all-in-one-pot, made from a special extra tasty, herby recipe. Time to share before the time to think. Family time. Stories. Plans for Christmas. Made on Monday, for Friday.
A woman used to cycle past my granny's house every Thursday on the way to Ballintober to get a few groceries. Every Thursday she also bought granny a Herald, and called in to her on the way home and they'd have tea. She had her own philosophies. One she brought up every Thursday was: 'When Tuesday comes the week is gone, Eileen ... is there seven in it at all?'
I've often adopted her philosophy - it has a definite place in project management. But it's only now I'm starting to realise its larger meaning - like the importance of Monday to the week, and the esteem in which it should be held.
Nature shows us that contrast is everything. Just as the day with most darkness shows us most light, so there cannot be contempt without respect.
In the months ahead, over an odd late night pint, I will consult with other men-about-forty as to whether this new philosophy has anything to do with a being-at-ease-with-the-world that possibly comes at this time of life. More importantly, though, every Monday morning I will celebrate the rounded pleasure of stepping out the front door, placing my feet squarely on the brick, and breathing in the fresh morning air.
Today was a Monday which happened to have the honour of being the shortest day of this year. A day of frost, a cold blue sky, and a golden yellow sun. The day which turned the year - started us back again on the road to light, leaving dark, in the eternal cycle of nature's balance of contrast.
It was for that reason, no doubt, amongst a few others of note, that today was a beautiful Monday. So much so, in fact, that I have, on reflection, completely revised my view of Mondays. From this day I will hold the view that Monday is a lovely day. It will even compete with the beloved Saturday of my youth.
Here's the first thing (coexisting harmoniously as the last thing): Monday night. Here I am, writing, philosophising, whatever. And it's usually Monday night that makes this pleasure possible. Yes, there is the fact that the freedom of the weekend may bring to mind most of the material for the philosophy, but it is usually loyal Monday night, untainted by appointment or worldly need, which gives its time to you, and you alone. Invaluable thinking time.
On top of that tonight, with the sun set on the shortest day, and simply just to grace and honour the passing of the longest night, this Monday produced a twenty-five precent waxing crescent moon, in a clear black sky, as beautiful and as crisp as any ever presented over Galway.
Here's a second thing: If Sunday night has a problem with the view of Monday morning looming large, like a spoilsport to end the weekend's fun, then Sunday is the day to blame for that really. Monday is our safe landing from the weekend's festivities (perhaps excesses), life-giving though they are.
On top of that this morning, white frost entertained us no end, as it playfully slid several cars back down the hill outside our window. How the kids laughed, kneeling on the sitting room couch in their pyjamas, to see such sport. And how late we all were for school and work as a result.
And a third thing: At work on Mondays there is a work camaraderie like no other day. The shared stories of the weekend wonders. The talk about the songs. About the excesses. And a shaking of heads in surrender to the week, making like 'right-so ... lets-get-down-to-it-again'. Then greeting Monday lunch time like the arrival of a true friend.
On top of that this lunch time, I phoned my sister back (after six missed calls from her) to learn that she had got engaged: proposed to on bended knee by the Dane she loves ... while perched on the old horse-drawn mowing machine ... in the haggard at the back of grandad's old house ... where it's been since as long as we can remember ... waiting patiently for another day of glory ... like this short, sweet day ... this Monday.
On top of all that this evening: coming home. A Christmas coming. Jelly being made in funny-shaped, colourdy containers. Dinner - a casserole, all-in-one-pot, made from a special extra tasty, herby recipe. Time to share before the time to think. Family time. Stories. Plans for Christmas. Made on Monday, for Friday.
A woman used to cycle past my granny's house every Thursday on the way to Ballintober to get a few groceries. Every Thursday she also bought granny a Herald, and called in to her on the way home and they'd have tea. She had her own philosophies. One she brought up every Thursday was: 'When Tuesday comes the week is gone, Eileen ... is there seven in it at all?'
I've often adopted her philosophy - it has a definite place in project management. But it's only now I'm starting to realise its larger meaning - like the importance of Monday to the week, and the esteem in which it should be held.
Nature shows us that contrast is everything. Just as the day with most darkness shows us most light, so there cannot be contempt without respect.
In the months ahead, over an odd late night pint, I will consult with other men-about-forty as to whether this new philosophy has anything to do with a being-at-ease-with-the-world that possibly comes at this time of life. More importantly, though, every Monday morning I will celebrate the rounded pleasure of stepping out the front door, placing my feet squarely on the brick, and breathing in the fresh morning air.
