Sundays are unique. For some, of course, it is the day to attend a worship service, to set aside customary morning routines and redefine focus and attention. For others it is the day that starts late, the day that is for rest, for a leisurely read of the newspaper, for poking about in some pursuit not intent on outcome.

Growing up, Sundays were for church attendance. In the afternoon a large and leisurely dinner was served and it wasn't until evening that the tedious requirements of daily life pressed in (well, bickering with my sister over dish-washing duties notwithstanding).

Although I no longer attend church services, Sundays continue to be holy for me. When I finish this post I will go out and run the weed-eater, disrupting the quiet in my neighborhood, upsetting the Sunday smooth curve of late summer's mid-day air. But when I am done the rift will close, the air will reform into its unbroken quiet path across our forested suburban countryside. The Sunday-ness of the world will have been just slightly disturbed by me, the wholeness of it intact.

I don't know what makes Sundays so unique: is it the inhabited quiet, the collective knowledge that it is a day outside routine, the unhidden secret of time stolen from our usual pursuits, the reverberation of innumberable lifetimes identifying this day as different?

I imagine that were I the Dalai Lama or some other Enlightened Being a sense of unremarkable holiness would be evident every day. It will have to be sufficient for now that it is this day, today, that feels holy to me. Tomorrow will have to fend for itself.