the art of savoring sundays

a ritual of rest and reflection

There’s something inherently magical about Sunday. It’s by far my favorite day. Regardless of the season or the weather, Sunday unfurls like a tender bloom—slowly, gently—and lingers like the scent of your favorite perfume on a well-worn sweater.

Sunday whispers for slowness, intention, and the purposeful savoring of hours that stretch wide and free, liberated from the weight of schedules and obligations.

In the early days of my business, Bagnet Company, I spent my weekends selling at craft shows and street fairs across California. Beneath my white tent, I would pitch my creation to serious shoppers and curious wanderers. Over time, I began to notice a subtle shift in the energy of the crowd as the weekend unfolded. Saturdays were filled with a sense of urgency. People had places to be, things to do, people to see. Their to-do lists loomed large, and their steps matched the brisk pace, their conversations clipped, as if every minute mattered. Saturday was a day for doing, for crossing things off the list, a day for action. But Sundays . . . Sundays were an entirely different world.

People strolled with an easy grace, coffee cups cradled in hands and nowhere-to-be attitudes that felt like a collective sigh of relief.

There was an unhurried, open-hearted quality to the day. Conversations meandered, smiles came effortlessly, and the atmosphere itself seemed to soften—only Sunday can conjure such a mood.

Even before those days, I was an unapologetic lover of Sunday. It’s the day that feels like promise and quiet joy, without the pressure of expectations looming overhead. It feels like a breath of opportunity without the shadow of disappointment. Sundays are slow, gentle mornings that melt seamlessly into midday maybes, quiet musings, and soft what-ifs. They’re the languid afternoons that pad barefoot to the kitchen, where dinners simmer slowly, accompanied by the soothing hum of music and the gentle clink of conversation.

In summer, Sundays are golden mornings spent lingering at the Farmer’s Market, a basket swinging from your arm, hair in a messy ponytail, and the earthiness of fresh produce filling the air. Sundays are cutting fresh fruit to enjoy slowly under the soft shade of an umbrella, letting each bite linger on your tongue. In autumn, they’re warm bagels and rich coffee in bathrobes, soft jazz curling around the air, with crossword puzzles scattered across the table.

The scent of soup on the stove and fresh bread in the oven fills the house, and the gentle hum of football creates the perfect soundtrack.

In winter, Sundays are wool socks, thick novels by the fire, and the flicker of fragrant candles filling the room with warmth. It’s red wine, quiet conversations, and jigsaw puzzles slowly coming together, piece by piece. They’re moments spent gazing out at the winter landscape, knowing you’re not required to leave the warmth of your home.

Sunday is the one day each week when we grant ourselves permission to go a little slower, linger a little longer, and smile a little easier. Below are some of my favorite ways to savor Sunday, no matter the season. I’d love to hear how you cherish this day, too—please share in the comments!

• I bake bread every Sunday. It’s slow, soothing, and takes the whole day—and that’s the joy of it.

• I linger over my coffee, journaling to the soft rhythm of jazz, daydreaming about everything and nothing all at once.

• I take a nap. An afternoon nap feels like pure indulgence.

• I take long walks with the dogs, allowing them to linger over smells and friendly neighbors, letting the world pass us by.

• I have a long bubble bath in the middle of the day. The timing is everything—nothing feels as luxuriously indulgent as purposefully shutting out the world for a soothing soak.

• I make art and listen to music. Sketches, watercolors, playful collages—none of it needs to be “good.” I lose myself in the act, time slipping away unnoticed.

• I craft homemade soup, stirring and simmering slowly, as though creating a magic potion.

• I shop the Farmer’s Market. I walk leisurely, snapping photos of vibrant crates of fruit, chatting with vendors, and always buying flowers for myself.

• I waste time. I let myself do nothing. I make tea, sit outside with the dogs, and simply expand into the moment.

• I wander through an exhibit. There’s something so gentle and unhurried about soft gazes and slow steps through museums—this is Sunday in its purest form.

• I linger over a treat at a charming café, bringing my book and journal, though I often end up lost in the rhythm of people-watching instead.