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Monday mornings have a particular kind of silence. Not the lazy Sunday kind. More like a silence that does not yet know what the day will bring. I unlock the shop and pause in the doorway for a moment. I do not go inside right away. That is the moment I like best. No one has arrived yet. Nothing has begun. Perhaps you know the feeling when, for a moment, a place is yours alone before it fills with life.
I take off my coat. Turn on the kettle. The first sounds of the day are not voices, but little things: the rustling of paper, a chair being moved, water hitting the sides of a mug. A ritual I no longer consciously notice. The body knows what to do before the mind does. Wipe the table. Arrange the knives. Put things back in their place. It is not cleaning. It is more about setting the rhythm.
Sometimes I wonder why repetitive movements calm us. Perhaps because they demand nothing of us. We do not have to make decisions. We can simply be present. Products returned from a photo shoot are waiting to be put away. Some disappear back onto the shelves, others into Toyo Steel toolboxes where they have their permanent place.
Orders are being packed in the back. Paper folds over the edge of a box. The tape traps the air for a moment before adhering. Every package will travel somewhere - to a kitchen we will never see, to someone who may open it in the evening after work. Something about that moment always moves me. Things leave. Space opens up again.
Meanwhile, the light changes almost imperceptibly. Suddenly, it is no longer morning. Just daytime. The door opens and the silence dissolves among conversations, questions, and footsteps across the floor. And yet something of that morning calm remains amid it all. Like the foundation on which the day stands.
Perhaps it is a moment similar to the one in our winter journal entry Quiet Cold – a moment when things are only just beginning to come together.
A Little Reflection
Have you ever wondered which part of the day is truly yours? Not the most productive part. Not the one you share. But that small, recurring moment when things are only just beginning to come together. Perhaps that is where home begins. Or work that becomes a little like home.
