I once read a story about a girl. At age 15, she wrote herself a letter to be opened by her older self - whom she expected to have a wildly successful life by that point. She wrote to her future, wiser self to remind her of the girl she'd once been: of her optimism and ambition. She wrote, thinking of herself years down the road, not knowing the specifics but sure of her future all the same.
I do something like that sometimes. I envision myself in a week - a day - a few hours. But I don't write to myself...no, not that. Instead, I do chores.
I sweep the floor. Load the dishwasher...or empty it. I scrub the pots. Feed the sourdough starter so that it will be ready for breakfast.
I tidy the books and check the room.
I set out my favorite mug and load the coffee pot with my current Teeccino.
I've done all I can for her, the Monday me. I've set the stage, put things in motion, looked ahead. I've taken care of her as best I know how.
And I've written her a sort of love letter.
Goodnight, Sunday me...