There are always workmen on a Monday morning, somewhere nearby, doing something loud.
There's a sense of staring over, of this week I will make life better.
(This week I will write 6000 words. This week I will not eat any wheat or sugar. This week I will do yoga every day.)
There's the relief of getting past Sunday, and its hookiness. A formal feeling comes. (To adapt Emily's loveliest formulation.)
There are the leftover projects begun on Sunday--an impulsive trip to the garden center, a vision for dotting the deck with unusual annuals, a handing over of the credit card, getting only part way done with the planting.
There's the to do list.
There are events to look forward to and events to decline. (There is a determination to remember who you are.)
There are ideas for many pieces to write, and the discipline to make note of them but stick to the project at hand.
There's the gratifying time spent with the appointment book.
There's a twinge of free floating panic.
There are the dogs, and the liberating belief that they don't know what day it is.
There is beginning and continuity.
There is a faint presentiment of failure, and a counter determination to reframe it.
There's the pleasure of solitude in contemplation of one's own time.
There's the frustration of time being claimed by duty.
There is the moment to get to work.
The workmen have been at it since the dawn of time, after all.