I want to do nothing today.
My alarm goes off and I roll over and groan, slamming my hand down on that button hard, to stop its incessant beeping.
I roll back over, pull the covers over my head and allow myself ten more minutes snuggled warm beneath the covers.
After a moment, I roll back over and shut the alarm off completely.
I don’t want to do anything today.
So I close my eyes and go back to sleep.
When I finally re-emerge several hours later, I fall out of bed, not bleary eyed, but well rested.
My hair is a tangled mess and my clothes are rumpled and my breath is atrocious, but I breeze past the bathroom and head down to the kitchen where I make myself some coffee and a bagel with cream cheese.
I grab that one book I’ve been dying to read and plop myself down on the front porch with my dog.
I sip my coffee as I read until there is nothing left but cold dregs, yet still I remain, letting the sun warm my face, breathing in the fresh morning air.
I don’t move until my legs are cramped and sore. The sun is high in the sky now and I decide that should probably clean myself up, just a little.
I brush my teeth and comb my hair and change out of my rumpled clothes. I make my bed, but decide the rest of the chores can wait for the day and head outside for a walk instead.
I meander leisurely through the streets until I’m sufficiently hot and tired and I head home.
I pick up my book again for a few hours more. I fall asleep with the pages open, sprawled across my lap.
It’s diner time now.
I make a sandwich and toss a handful of chips on a plate because I can’t be bothered with the dishes today.
When I’m finished, I wipe the crumbs off my chin and drop the plate in the sink and leave it for the night.
I decide to pour myself a glass of deep, red wine.
Outside my window, the sun is setting and the world grows dark. Sitting in my quiet living room, I pause.
I set my glass down on the table.
I realize that I have done nothing today. I have not cleaned or exercised or worked on my writing or trained the dog.
The panic begins to set in.
My mind starts to chart and plot all the things I’ll have to do. The list is endless.
For a moment, I berate myself. For being lazy. For being stupid. For being worthless.
And then I happen to glance out my window.
I see the stars and the planets twinkling in the night sky.
I see the indigo clouds scuttling across the sky.
I see the trees and I think of the creatures rustling within the leaves, settling down for the night.
I think of all of nature’s creations, the ebb and flow of life and death, of rest and of action, and I realize that sometimes it is just okay to exist.
To exist as the stars in the sky do, as the barren trees and the sleepy bears in winter do.
Sometimes it is okay to be still, to be restful.
To make or feel or be nothing.
The world still goes on. The planet continue their orbits. The waves rise and fall.
And I am better for it.
I lean back in my chair and reach for my glass of wine again.
I take a long sip.
I wanted to do nothing today, I think. And I did just that.
And that, I realize, is okay.