It’s Monday. Again.
It’s Monday. Again.
The beginning of another week.
The calendar already full of meetings.
The weekly chores reset,
while the list of undone things grows like a weed,
threatening to choke out the light.
Maybe this will be the week
everything finally finds its place.
The pantry organized (and staying that way!)
The garden planted.
Every box on the list checked,
with time left to read a book or two.
Maybe this will be the week
my soul finds space to rest in silence.
Maybe.
But probably this week
will look like most others:
a patchwork of grace and grit,
moments of peace stitched between
the rush of getting everyone
and everything
where they need to be.
So I’ll begin, not with grand plans,
but with breath.
A slow inhale.
An exhale of release.
And a small intention
to love a little wider,
to make room for forgiveness,
even for myself.
Even in the middle of the mess.
Even in the rhythm of the ordinary.
Even if it doesn’t all get done.
Because it’s Monday. Again.
And this day is already holy.