Some Sundays are met with
waking
only when
your eyes
decide
to naturally open.
Usually with me, it's early morning.
Sunday is usually a slower start.
Coffee on the deck,
or perhaps two,
while sitting in the stillness
watching the sun
just as it starts to rise.
Other Sundays are met
with the "BEEP BEEP BEEP"
of an alarm clock.
Or in my case,
a slow rising volume of a mystical musical chime.
A race to grind the beans
for that one fresh cup of coffee
to swallow back
between
jumping into and out of the shower
to only watch
the sun rise
in my rearview mirror.
Both types of Sundays
fill me with gratitude.
Perhaps not always in the moment
but at the very least
in the reflection of it.
I'm grateful for the unhurried pace.
The moments of stillness.
The solitude.
But
I'm also grateful for the privilege
that I have had
over the past two
decades
sharing a piece of myself
to help others
on perhaps one of their worst days.
The one thing about nursing
that I dare say most people do not recognize
is that
the people we encounter
and care for
take a little piece of us with them
whenever they leave...
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