on being lazy

I’m neither inspired nor disgusted by the prompt to write about the consequences (bad things) or the rewards of being lazy.

Perhaps I’m not in love with the word lazy, because I’m a fan of leisure and I don’t necessarily believe that leisure is synonymous with lazy.

Quiet.
Still.
Calm.
Relaxed.
Restored.

Lying in bed watching the dappling of light and shadow play through the leaves on the tree outside my bedroom window come summer and fall.
Lying in bed watching the starkness of light and shadow stream through the bare branches on the tree outside my bedroom window in winter.

Curling up on the sofa with a comfortable quilt and a good book, with the windows cracked open so I can breathe in earthy petrichor and listen to the rain. You know, back in the day when I didn’t have to be to work at 8am.

Curling up on my bed or sinking back in the reclined seat of my car, windows cracked, to steal 9 minutes of power napping in order to give me the oomph I need to power through another day at the office or another day of not rest on the weekend.

In the break-necked speed of a fast-past world where we put so much stock in doing we’ve forgotten how to simply be, I may easily regret some of the distractions I busy myself with on occasion, but I hope I’m a better person for being able to sit with family or friends and just be for a few hours, without watching my phone or the clock. Listening. Talking. Feeling. Connecting.

[Day 139 of Ann Dee Ellis’ 8-Minute Memoir.]