B"H
It's a foggy day, inside and out. Soft wet air, with indistinct shifts in direction, and low visibility. Moving through today is like moving through a dream. I'm a little anxious, but not because I have to do anything. I am anxious because I want to allow room for doing nothing.
Nothing is what I'm doing when I'm spying shapes amongst the dripping leaves. Nothing is relaxing as the faint breeze shakes hands with the oak branches. Nothing is near stillness, but not complete, profound, stillness. Just... nothing.
Nothing is not a prized state according to many. We "should" be productive, striving, succeeding. And it's good to do that sometimes.
What if nothing is depression in disguise? But there is a sweetness to nothing, a comfort, a simplicity, and a restfulness. Depression is not nothing. Depression is full of hard, pokey bits, and it weighs endless tons.
Nothing is appreciating the whiff of wet humus drifting in the window. Nothing is listening to a sleeping dog breathe. Nothing is folding warm sheets, quietly matching corners. It's scary to accept doing nothing, for me, because in the past there was shame and blame for behaving so.
This will be my bravery for the day: to do nothing, knowingly, and not to be put off of it. For a little while, I will live in a dream of nothing.
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