By the time Sunday evening rolls around, I’ve usually had enough of everybody.
And I mean that with love.
At 56, I’m at a stage of life where Sundays can be wonderfully full. There are errands to run, things to put away, meals to think about, and the usual collection of little jobs that somehow multiply over the weekend. Add in children, grandchildren, visits, and the inevitable cleanup after everyone has gone home, and Sunday can feel less like a day of rest and more like a second job.
But I’ve discovered something that has changed the way I end my week.
My Sunday night bath.
It isn’t fancy. There’s no elaborate skincare routine, no special meditation app, no long list of things I’m supposed to do to improve myself. I run the water, get the temperature just right, and settle in for the better part of an hour.
Then I put on the whales.
Whale sounds. That’s my thing now.
I never would have predicted it. I’m not what anyone would call a meditative person. I’ve never been particularly good at sitting still, clearing my mind, or following instructions that begin with, “Close your eyes and focus on your breathing.”
My mind tends to have other plans. It remembers something I forgot to do on Thursday, reminds me about a birthday coming up, and occasionally produces a completely unnecessary thought about something somebody said to me three years ago.
But whale song? Somehow, whale song gets through.
I have several playlists saved, and I’ve become surprisingly particular about them. Some are better than others. Some have that lovely, deep, clear sound that seems to travel right through you. Others are muddier, with too much background noise or recordings that don’t quite have the depth I’m looking for.
I know. It’s a funny thing to become a connoisseur of whale noises at 56.
But once you’ve found a good recording, you understand.
There is something about those long, haunting calls echoing through the water that makes the rest of the world feel very far away. They rise and fall, sometimes almost like a song, sometimes like a conversation happening somewhere beyond your understanding. You don’t need to follow a story. You don’t need to learn anything. You don’t even need to pay attention all the time.
You can simply listen.
And gradually, without trying very hard, the noise in my own head begins to settle.
The weekend’s little dramas lose their importance. The things waiting for me on Monday can stay there until Monday. I stop mentally arranging the week ahead and allow myself to be exactly where I am.
It’s the most meditative thing I’ve ever done in my life, which is rather ironic considering I’ve never set out to meditate.
The Waverley bath board has become part of the ritual, too. It gives me a convenient place to keep the little things I want nearby, so I’m not reaching out of the bath or interrupting the moment to search for something. Once everything is arranged, I can lean back, put on my playlist, and let the evening unfold at its own pace.
There’s a certain pleasure in having a routine that belongs entirely to you. Not to the family, not to the calendar, not to the next person who needs something. Just you.
I used to think relaxation meant doing something special once in a while. A weekend away, a nice dinner, a holiday that took months to organize. Those things are lovely, of course, but they don’t happen every week.
This does.
Every Sunday, after the bustle has ended and the house has quieted down, I get my hour. I don’t have to go anywhere or arrange anything with anyone. I don’t have to be productive. I don’t have to justify it.
I just listen to the whales.
Sometimes I emerge feeling refreshed. Sometimes I’m simply quieter inside. And sometimes I find myself wondering why on earth it took me this long to discover something so uncomplicated.
All those years of busy Sundays, of rushing from one thing to the next, and I could have been doing this.
Still, I suppose that’s the funny thing about finding a ritual that works for you. It doesn’t matter how late you arrive at it. The moment you discover it, it becomes yours.
Now, as Sunday evening draws to a close, I find myself looking forward to the bath almost as much as I look forward to the weekend itself.
Because Monday will come, as it always does. There will be people to see, things to do, and a fresh week waiting for me.
But first, there will be the water, the quiet, and the whales singing somewhere in the deep.
And for one glorious hour, I don’t have to do a thing about any of it.
