He and I have had some form of Sunday Coffee nearly each Sunday we have been a “we.”  With the exception of, maybe, two (three would be pushing it), we have kept early Sunday mornings sacred.  When we were long-distance, the first one awake would call the other and we would begin the new week with an often dark and groggy chat.  

Not only was/is the scheduled conectivity and its related anticipation and healing so important, but the ritual of the call, its purpose, and outcomes – they were/are significant, as well.

I am glad he suggested it in the beginning (I’m talking the very beginning – as in the end of our very first phone call).  He said something like, “Let’s do this:  One day a week we’ll set aside a time just for us to talk.  To catch up.  To start the new week together.  We’ll have our coffee together.  Sound good?”  

Was he kidding? “Sound good?”  It sounded too good to be true, frankly.  But what the heck. *shrug*  Cautiously, I went forward, one Sunday to the next.  And, earlier riser, he would call first.  Truthfully, long distance is not for the faint of heart nor those remotely insecure; sometimes, in the days between our calls, I’d question my sanity and imagine a morning when he would decide the whole long distance thing had grown boring or he’d found some local female interests, and just stopped calling.

That didn’t happen.  The weekly Sunday-with-coffee Call continued.  Regularly.  It became part of our glue, an element of our mutual respect; a lighthouse bringing us to shore from wild and tumultuous weekdays.  It was, is, healing and restorative and grounding.  It is a communion.

Those calls lifted me through the most difficult of days, the weakest of weeks; when I thought for sure the choice to be in a long-distance thing was just plum stupid, his voice and that call eased my doubts.  

My close friends were keenly supportive.  A few, not as close, were flatly negative and shared (all too often) that the crazy thing I was doing would not amount to anything other than a painful and embarrassing lesson.  And, the naysayers liked to impart their unsupportive opinions most frequently during our group Happy Hours.  I learned to listen with half an ear and to consider the source. Were there any clouding of my perspective, the Sunday morning call would bring clarity.

Now that we are living together we continue the early Sunday coffee hudle.  Sometimes in bed or on the sofa.  In good weather, on the porch in pajamas.  We raise our cups and ideas on the back deck while overlooking the shaggy and long-growth yard, tossing a ball or bone for the dog.  In winter, we have migrated indoors to collect our thoughts and review the week.

We talk about everything.  We listen to each other, using the quiet to give overview to the week ahead and set an intention about our time, our household, work, menus, family, health, etc.  What is missing is missing.  

I do not depart the conversation feeling the weird mix of deep, sad longing mixed with buoyant cheer.  I feel energized as always just not tinted with blue.  Best of all, we get to wake and continue the conversation daily rather than weekly.  And we do not have to hold our breath in between.

Despite all the connectivity that comes from co-habitation, Sunday mornings are still most special and set a bit higher than the rest.

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