Oh, Spacious Sunday

the practice of space, rest and becoming

Across cultures and centuries, Sunday has carried a kind of collective exhale. Many societies held it as a day of worship or rest — a pause in the noise of everyday life, a way to ground and realign. Its sacredness emerged at the crossroads of solar symbolism, Christian theology, and cultural rhythm. Globally, Sunday has been:

• A solar day (Romans, Slavic/Baltic traditions)

• A resurrection day (Christianity)

• A communal day of rest (Europe, Pacific Islands)

• A hybrid cultural day of stillness and gathering (many post-Christian-contact societies)
  

  It is one of the rare moments in human history where cosmology, religion, law, and culture agreed to stop together.

I grew up inside that pause at Asbury United Methodist Church in the steady, Midwestern quiet of Columbus, Indiana. Not every Sunday, but most. I didn’t think of them as sacred — only slower, softer, distinct. What stayed with me wasn’t the sermon; it was the stillness it created, the way the world seemed to hush long enough that something bigger could be heard.

“Space isn’t the absence of something. It’s the place where something begins.”
— Rumi

Today, without the polyester suit, I keep Sundays sacred by choice. I leave them unplanned, spacious, unscripted — a boundary that protects a day where I answer only to instinct. My church now is a hammock strung in a pine forest, the wooden floor of dance church, my studio with paint scattered on the table, a lake with no agenda, a notebook in a coffee shop. The location changes, but the open space itself is what’s holy.

Space lets intuition return. Intuition is the channel that helps me feel my connection to the greater source—God, energy, origin. We are always connected, inseparably, but we only notice it when nothing is cluttering the signal. When I protect spaciousness on Sundays, I’m protecting the conditions where I meet God directly, inwardly, intuitively — God/Source/Self not as three directions but as one origin recognized through openness.

Sacredness, for me, isn’t ceremony.
It’s clarity through space.
Presence without plans.
Becoming without broadcast.

One day a week, I don’t schedule my soul —
I let it surprise me again.

And in that spaciousness, my higher power, my intuition, my gut, and God/source speak in the same unhurried direction — one voice, finally audible because nothing else demanded the room.

That is my Sunday.
Wide enough to be true.
Quiet enough to be heard.
Unplanned enough to be sacred.