Yesterday, I took my book out onto my deck and sat facing the woods behind my house. It's the sound of the wind and the leaves that I was craving. And that's such the *right* word for what I felt. Not to hike, not to plant, not to forage, or to harvest. Not to be active, but to be passive. To sit, to listen.
That kind of passivity, of idleness, is tough for me--as I assume it is for so many of us. We have this Yankee work ethic/guilt thing (those darned Puritans...ruined us for any kind of leisure...) that keeps us from realizing how important that kind of rest is. Yes, I brought my book out (the one I'm reading for fun, btw), because I figured I had to do *something.*
But, finally, I put it down. I felt as though I were wasting this incredible moment--this moment of receiving, of just being. Of watching, of listening, of **participating** in the easy grace, the fluttering joyfulness and present life of everything around me.
I was so tired--mentally, I think, just drained. And I tried closing my eyes, but that didn't work. All I could see was that I was missing out on participating in the incredible joy of sitting, watching, breathing, being.