I’m not doing anything.
I’m not going anywhere.
I watch tiny house videos on YouTube.
Or cats that are best friends with dogs, or otters, or foxes.
I lose myself in hours and hours of talks by Eckhart Tolle or Adyashanti.
I just sit in bed with my eyes closed.
I go to the forest and walk around on the grass, barefoot.
I sit in the sun.
Watching the lake.
I eat something.
I look out of the window.
It’s the most unspectacular thing ever, but it might also be the truest.
I’m not going for gold, I’m not recording a coaching program, I’m not trying to improve myself, there’s no striving or reaching or pushing.
I’m healing, because it’s time.
I’m healing the many wounds that I covered up with all the tricks I learned to be and feel happy and content and awesome.
I’m healing and feeling, everything.
Without a plan, but graciously flowing.
I cry and I sigh and then I laugh, softly, gently.
It’s like I’m holding myself, giving myself space to go through things I didn’t want to go through, but I feel vulnerably confident.
It’s not dramatic: it’s just really real, and simple, and pure.
I’m tired and I’m sad and my body hurts, and it’s all, well… comfortable.
I feel invited by stillness, and I listen.
I feel inclined to slow down, so that’s what I do.
It’s not the end of the world, it’s a beginning.
I’ve never felt change so clearly.
And throughout the day, wherever I am, I close my eyes in meditation, or in connection, and I simply rest in awareness.
I rest in awareness.
But I’m not doing anything.
All of it.
(Photo by @adamkring, for Unsplash)