Just being still...

Sometimes I sit in a chair, and just... sit there.

I don't read.  I just look out of the window, or out across a yard to another backyard, or out across a street.  Years ago I did that when life was harder.  Because I needed to.  Now I do it with some kind of  "I need to do it" purpose.  Because in all the stuff that crowds you in, I tell myself that I have to be still.

But I'm not.

The stuff nags at me.  The sitting-all-by-myself feels lonely.  And I reach for a book.


Sometimes I sit in a chair, an open book on my lap.  I read a few sentences and I look up, and stare.  And sit.  The stillness comes, without trying... unexpected... a gift.