These post-lodge days have a certain kind of rhythm: clean the garage, fold and store the tarps, wash the sheets and blankets…and they move just a little bit slower than the day before.

I’m sitting in a bagel shop waiting for the laundry to dry. On the wall across from me, twin TV’s scroll videos of baby animals synched with barely audible Christian pop.

The place is nearly empty, which is pretty rare for a Sunday, and I’m grateful for the extra space and a little extra time to occupy it.

At a small table next to me, two elderly women engage in lively discourse about Halloween decorations and the ways their lives have changed since their husbands died. The conversation ends abruptly when a young girl brings a sandwich to the table, and except for an occasional murmur and the clattering of the register at the counter, the place falls back into stillness.

It’s good to have these Sunday morning interludes – especially after the ordeal of a sweat lodge. They offer a chance to soak it all in, to let it settle into my bones and replace a few of the aches and pains that have lived there for so long.

As a child of dysfunctionality, I’ve carried around my own portion of anger, shame, and grief for sixty-odd years; and sometimes it takes a great deal of effort to manage.

But weekends like this really help to lighten the load…