A Month of Sundays

January began with a cold.  I was on my back or buttocks more than my feet for the first few weeks.  Somewhere between a sneeze and a cough, I managed to pinch my sciatic nerve once again.  It was a particularly harsh episode and it was at least a week before I could sleep more than two hours at a time.  Eventual, I took on the form of a sadly deformed pretzel, left side to the mattress, right hoisted in the air at an absurd angle to the other and then, a twitch and a tuck and sleep was upon me.  I've taken my walks, short ones, one to two kilometers, not particularly enjoyable in the wet snow or almost frozen rain, but respites from buttock or back and an intake of something other than pipe smoke and dust.  One good thing's come out of it, though, I've redefined Sunday.  We'll leave the semantics lesson for another time, but I thought I'd let you know that Sunday is a day when you don't write, or carve, or even think.  Sunday is the mindfulness of mindlessness.  I've had a month of them and am looking forward to the rest.