Sacred Sunday Mornings

I wake up early on Sunday mornings. Wash my face, brush my teethe and go downstairs. Open the door and grab the Sunday paper, waiting there for me, like a hungry animal waiting to be fed and loved.

I make my coffee, take out the paper and go through it page by page...well, not exactly. I skip certain sections like the Sports and Classified but you know...I try to enjoy it all. Always read the bestseller booklist and Steve Lopez's columns. The ultimate sarcastic writer. (www.latimes.com/lopez).

I realize, the past couple of weekends, I have even read the obituaries--very carefully, very in detail. This week, they had a special on the dead War soldiers: Sergent Martinez, 23, Sergent Hernandez 19, Sergent Garcia, 21...all Mexican young males. What a surprise that they recruit the poor minorities to die. Total dead in Iraq, they say, 3798. What a big lie...it must be triple that number.

I love my Sunday mornings. As I sit on my red couch, and the sun slowly comes into the quiet living room, My Sanctuary... I read, I reflect, I pray, I hope and I look forward to better days...because there will always be better days, because that's what the universe does, it moves towards improvement and perfection.

And still, writing is therapeutic.