When I was a kid we used to go every Sunday to the countryside where my parents have a house nearby a lake.
I grew up in a tiny apartment, on the last floor of a big building. From the kitchen you could see the playground, a square place between a lot of concrete. It was on a the southside and most of my souvenirs of that room have a bright and golden layer. My bedroom was on the other side of the apartment, with view on a railway bridge made out of red stones and on a ring-road. It wasn’t exactly what you can call calm but I liked it. I enjoyed watching all these cars passing by, the unceasing movement of industrial life, wondering who all those people were, what their life was like, where they were going. Most of the time I was alone in my bedroom; playdates were only allowed on our birthday parties and still, I never really felt alone. My bedroom was my house, my world, the space of unlimited possibilities. But on Sunday I had to leave that magical place to go to the house nearby the lake. My father built it entirely while my mother was fulfilling an entire notebook with photos from interior magazines to dream how she would decorate it. They loved and still love that house very much. I didn’t. At least, not that much and definitely not on Sunday. During the summer it was fun, friends of my parents and family relatives were coming by; my father was on holiday, he was relaxed and as a consequence my mother was relaxed too.
The rest of the year, it felt like everything was cold, monochrome, empty. The silence outside only disturbed by the wind in the trees, the total darkness at night, the feeling of being in an abandoned place really freaked me out. I was surrounded by nature and instead of admiring its majesty I felt deeply alone. The highlight of the day was when we had to go back in the car to return to our apartment. It was the sign that the weekend was over. In the car, it was jazz, jazz and jazz, my dad’s choices. When I think of the four of us riding through the countryside at the end of day, watching through the window the sun coming down, I hear Nina Simone’s voice, Bill Evans delicate touch on the piano, Stan Gets playing Autumn leaves. It was melancholic and soft.
Mondays mornings are my favourites. While Sundays are for me very Otis Redding “Sitting on the dock of the bay” kind of mood, Mondays are Dina Washington “What a difference a day makes”. We start again, and again, and again every week. We hope and thrive for good energy, inspiring moments and encounters.
When the kids are at school, hubby at his work and I come back to an empty home, I enjoy the silence, look up at the sky and feel lucky and blessed to start again a new week.
May your week be colourful and fulfilled with joy.
All rights reserved Carole Rey