On Sundays, I've been spending a lot of time by myself. C's been going to a friend's house to do woodcarving and though often invited, I haven't felt like biking out there, opting instead to read, write, sew and walk the beaches on my own.
I might even remember to bring a steaming cup of dandyblend with tinned milk. My camera. A book. A pencil. A magnifying glass. It might be early morning, or dusk.
I go slowly, pause to observe hermit crabs, herons, seaweeds moving with the tide receding, or returning. I might write a line or two, or read a few poems, maybe a book of essays, listen to birdsong or music. Sometimes I do nothing, think of nothing, just walk.
On Sundays I dress up, wear favorite clothes, but only to feel comfortable. If its raining and the air and water seem close enough in temperature, I might shed them entirely and wade into the ocean. It is freezing cold, but when you come out, you are completely comfortable, like your never going to need anything between your skin and the world again.
It feels lonely, often. And that's good. It's a feeling that one has to the get comfortable in, have time for. Before long it's almost time to go home, build up the fire again, start dinner, wait for my one and only.