Easy Like Sunday Mornings…

Morning Walk STX 2012 e1347807458683 Easy Like Sunday Mornings...

Sun­days for me have always had a spe­cial rhythm to them. As far back as I can remem­ber, it’s the one day when sleep was allowed to linger and I was allowed to wake up on my own steam. When I lived on a street called Upper Mal­one Ave, it was the sound of Sun­day morn­ing hymns that woke me.  Not pushed through a human voice box nec­es­sar­ily, although now and again you could hear a coun­try twang, or a Cock­ney accent, or a par­tic­u­lar local tal­ent strain­ing through a lit­tle tran­sis­tor radio, that had more heart than sta­mina, as it sat obe­di­ently on the win­dow sill.  Mostly what called out to me on a Sun­day morn­ing was the equiv­a­lent to the Sound of Music, cue the “…hills are alive…” with full unseen orches­tra ply­ing keys, bend­ing strings and giv­ing vent to wind instru­ments and out­stretched arms. It was worlds away, but it was still here, right there in my backyard.

Oth­ers times while I resided there, it was the scratch-scratch of a coconut broom wind­ing its way under our win­dow.  The out­side was mak­ing its way inside. There was that feel­ing on the inside.  I was mirac­u­lously alive and the day was already winning.

Sun­days were feast days…

Break­fast was salt­fish and eggs and soft doughy bread or Johnny cake, fol­lowed by freshly peeled and sec­tioned pineap­ple. If Cereal–Cornflakes, Cream of Wheat, oats or what have you reigned dur­ing the week, Sun­days always brought the sauce. Lunch was meat long sim­mered in brown sauce.  There was no such thing as white space on a plate. There was no arti­fice. No pos­ing off. Sun­days also brought Pound cake from scratch. Belly full. Mmmh… You can well imagine.

Sun­days were a fam­ily reunion…

We were 13, give or take to a mod­est house that always felt like man­sion. We wan­dered about. There were age gaps. There were agen­das. There was grown-folk busi­ness that needed tend­ing. As chil­dren we would make our­selves busy with scrapes and loose dirt and red-light, yellow-light, green-light… We were diverted dur­ing the week. Every­one was in and out. Sun­days we got dressed together because we were leav­ing together, at least in groups and not just in twos. Back in those days, every cousin had a pair. On Sun­days, we were des­tined for Zion and the walk would never run, since there was no rea­son to court trou­ble and a tell-tell sit­u­a­tion on an easy Sun­day. We would decide, which way? Would we go through the alley­ways, which had the lure of being dubbed the back­way, or would we travel the main?  No con­test there, as we usu­ally took all the short cuts. I don’t ever remem­ber being late to a Sun­day Ser­vice. Seri­ously! I must take note. For where would one even sit.  Back then Zion was filled to the rafters.

On the way home, we would make our way towards his­tor­i­cal and pic­turesque Inde­pen­dence Square. I want to say this rep­re­sented the long way as we added friends to a famil­iar posse and cre­ated mem­o­ries that can be found today in someone’s beloved album.

Sun­days grew up fast…

There are too many angst-ridden years when Sun­days were a blur. The beat down of the con­stant church sched­ule. The rebel­lions. The quar­rels. Sun­days prac­ti­cally became pet­ri­fied. Bad girl. Bad girl. Bad girl… The poem “Grace” is a por­tion of my redemp­tion song.

Sun­days fell in love…

I blame the Sun­day Times. After lack­adaisi­cal years and sojourns through islands, and islands states and the United States, Sun­days blos­somed into full-grown love and the Sun­day Times. Yes, I hap­pily bought into the adver­tis­ing. At the time, the inge­nious Sun­day Times brought relief, if only for his rec­om­men­da­tion.  And the peace after the pace of the rush-rush of a New-York-state-of-mind meant some­thing to my heart, which had learned to beat only to fear at warp speed. You could fall in love read­ing the Sun­day Times, and If you were lucky–and I often was–you would find a spread on some Caribbean Isle that you knew; not in the words that the writer used, because they were touristy and tourism loves to loot; but you know, you could look into a lover’s eyes and get to where you’re get­ting to and smile a while over the Sun­day Times…

Sun­days came full circle…

I don’t know exactly when it hap­pened, but as much as things change they still remain the same. Some 30 years since the first mem­ory and in a Florida-state-of-mind, I still feel my way on a Sun­day. There is always a song, most espe­cially today and it emanates from some­where deep down. My own inter­nal tran­sis­tor radio tran­si­tion­ing me into what a day like today could be. I move slowly, grate­ful for so many things and recent hap­pen­ings. I lis­ten to my own breath­ing, make blan­ket angels. Some­times my heart pitter-patters for fam­ily and I move with the need to spend time with my church fam­ily. Other days, I know the need to fold into myself and just be by myself; I watch myself side­ways in the mir­ror, touch a mole I only dis­cov­ered or redis­cov­ered two weeks ago, smil­ing at stretch marks, mark­ing time and years, won­der­ing baby thoughts, which is so new like melan­choly that I am unused to.

Sun­days are a beginning…

True, it is more tra­di­tion than sci­ence or even nat­ural evo­lu­tion. Sun­days are a great day to let it all hang out. Cloth­ing is optional. Spa dates man­i­fest. I am totally invested in self-grooming, and there is no other day I feel so up to a painted nail, a green-masked face and a run-on sentence.

Sun­days are an invitation…

Like an ush­er­ing into the new­ness of what is around the cor­ner. Or prepa­ra­tion for the bat­tle out there, which is very depen­dent on the one I am plan­ning to win today. Sun­days could be a day for scat­tered thoughts on paper as they make way and give vent. Not that they need a spe­cial day for the lat­ter, but you under­stand. There is intro­spec­tion hap­pen­ing. Pat­tern set and followed.

Ulti­mately, it’s nice to revisit the fab­ric of our lives, because there were good times, and good food, and good girl days that grew into womanhood.

Sun­days are sim­ply spe­cial.  And to that I say AMEN

Do you have any spe­cial Sun­day mem­o­ries? Or is there another spe­cial day that holds sway?


 Easy Like Sunday Mornings... Tynisha Camelitta (95 Posts)

Hi there! I’m Tynisha Camelitta, writer, West Indian, mango-lover, host­ess & passion-preneur @ DASHEEN mag­a­zine + Camelitta INK! Co. DASHEEN is proud to be the online des­ti­na­tion where cul­ture feeds imag­i­na­tion. If you’d like to con­tribute to this com­mu­nity, drop me a line here, I’d love to read/see you. Bless up!

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  1. Wow, oh wow. Beau­ti­ful writ­ing and a reminder that words can trans­port you in ways a pic­ture can­not. Wrapped myself up in these words on this beau­ti­ful Sun­day after­noon.
    Wiz­zy­Wizzy recently posted..This is why I am not a vegetarian.

    • Thank you lady! I lit­er­ally felt pro­pelled… I had to write it. Glad it went about its busi­ness and blessed your day. :)

  2. Evoca­tive, very much am Island sen­si­bil­ity alive here, espe­cially in the early para­graphs. Can I quib­ble? Am I allowed to? A miss­ing “d” to make a proper tense, there is more, but they are, as I say mere quib­bles and have more to do with my faste­dious­ness than any­thing else, but still.…

    I par­tic­u­larly like: “…which is so new like melan­choly I am unused to” Bril­liantly evoca­tive. Thanks for writing.

    • You are allowed what feels right P. Clay­ton Hug­gins. Thank you for reading.

  3. Favorite line: “there is no other day I feel so up to a painted nail, a green masked face and a run-on sen­tence.” :)

    Now I’m long­ing to wake up to break­fast at your momma’s house!
    Mariah recently posted..2nd Annual Bao Fest!

    • That would have been grandma’s house Mariah. But trust and believe that Momma can hus­tle just as well. Thanks for stop­ping by!


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