He would get up first, careful not to wake her. He would go downstairs to the kitchen, make his coffee with honey, drink it, settle into a little corner of the sofa, and begin to write. There was still some time before dawn drew back the curtain of night; yet, at that early hour, ideas seemed to leap more freely.
She was a little lazier; she certainly did not share that explosive energy. She would wake hours later, with the grace of a swan. She was in no hurry: she would freshen up at her leisure and then prepare breakfast, but not before sneaking up behind him and wishing him good morning with a hug and a stolen kiss. By then, he would think: “Well, I’ve only got a few minutes left to finish.”
After breakfast together, he would put on some music and do a few things around the house, while she went out into the garden, breathed in the fresh air, and stretched. Then she would gather her painting supplies and continue the painting she had already spent so many Sundays working on. She loved trying new colours and combining them in unimaginable ways.
When he finished his chores, he would sit on the porch and watch her intently. He was mesmerised by the dance between the creator and her work; a complete picture: her shining hair flowing in the breeze as her paint-stained hands made little adjustments here and there. A whole spectacle of coordination and fusion that seemed to unfold in slow motion. When she finished, it was as though her human soul had returned to her body, leaving that creative state behind. Then she would turn towards him and ask with a broad smile:
“Darling, shall we make lunch?”
After watching her, he could do nothing but embrace her and give her a kiss. By lunchtime, they had both given their imaginations free rein and could return to their usual meandering conversations. They would eat together and then take a peaceful walk beneath the still-intense rays of the sun.
Later, back home, they would settle on the sofa, and she would rest her head in his lap to listen to his latest story. Sometimes there were pirate adventures; other times, medieval tales, though their central theme almost always revolved around the magic of paths crossing in the most unexpected ways. For a while, their minds would travel into those stories, experiencing them as though they were inside them.
For them, a fulfilling life meant building it themselves and exchanging the gifts that emerged from within. With their hearts now ablaze and not the slightest barrier between them, all that remained was to melt into one another.
Finally, they would usually put the finishing touch to that perfect day by going out to dinner with friends and sharing a few laughs.
A simple Sunday filled with nothing but creativity and the joy of sharing themselves through love.
What better temple for God?