Sundays at my house are quiet. I don’t do any yardwork, including no power tools, etc. This is partially by conviction: I believe that people need a day of rest from their labors,but also due to the fact that I live in a conservative Mennonite, Amish-Mennonite community who do have convictions on Sunday Sabbath and who I want to respect. It is blissfully quiet around here, no going to work traffic, no tractors or whining lawnmowers, just birdsong and the sound of insects, the blowing of the wind and the rustle of leaves. As development ever encroaches I know my days of such a privilege, of these quiet Sundays, are numbered. Eventually those who despise the idea of Sunday as Sabbath will move here and impose their ways. Until then I have come to greatly appreciate the repose it gives to my senses.
Occasionally, my own house breaks it. I don’t have any rules against music or electric guitar playing… Thankfully there is enough space between me and the nearest neighbor that I doubt it should make too much difference. Those days I give up my quiet, if I can tolerate to… No hard and fast rule to it.
We don’t think of rest, usually. There used to be a time when farming practices left the land fallow at intervals. It was a time of rejuvenation of the source. The soils would replenish their nutrient value, and it became a barrier to some types of disease I suppose. Today arable land is not often left fallow. It is farmed year after year, with the inevitable depletion covered by artificial chemical fertilizers. Production stays up, but I think there is a cost involved. The same with our personalities. How many of our diseases and neuroses may be laid at the doorstep of unending effort and stress? I wonder.
It was a hot day today, but that is no trouble when the soft breezes blow and one has nothing to do but sit in the Andirondack chair and read. And take time to thank God for such blessings. A rich peace, indeed, is ours to enjoy on a Sunday afternoon.
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