I walk each morning with my dog Stella at the local dog park. I chat with the other dog owners, and Stella smells the other doggies, and we all get along quite well. Then we move on down the path to wrap around the circumference of the park and enjoy the brisk air and the limited rays of sun that grace us with their presence every few steps due to the clouds' wayward movements.
I find peace here and connection with the silence of the morning while we distance ourselves from others and climb the rolling hill and disappear behind leafless trees and spindle-like-brush. Whatever needs to be decided for the day seems doable and unimportant in the moment, like all things have their space and time and none of them reside in the moment I walk in, except walking.
Stella runs ahead and runs back with her medium-length ears flopping about her head, and I see enjoyment light up her furry, burnt sienna face, and I laugh and breath deep. I listen to the birds chirp and sing and watch the fat squirrels scurry up nearby trees with Stella on their tails.
Time has convinced me of the necessity of quiet and calm, of leisure and gratitude, of walking and breath. Our world feels hectic to me most of the time, and I can feel swayed by it's urgency and even begin to think I need to be fast to be more productive. I have not found this to be true, more like my productivity is attached to my efficiency, and if my efficiency is lacking, it won't matter how fast I go my productivity will falter. My efficiency comes from being and then doing and being requires me to experience the present moment now not two days from now in hindsight.
I walk with Stella and look at the blue sky and languid clouds and hear the birds chatter and the squirrels skitter over tree bark, and I know I'm right where I need to be, for each moment's potency nourishes the well-being of Me, in my entirety. My being now will bleed into the doing of my day, which will inevitably cultivate efficiency and therefore productivity will ensue. And, as a bonus, I won't be a fretting, impatient, irritable mess by the time I meet up with my kids after school. Life is simple if I treat it so.
I find peace here and connection with the silence of the morning while we distance ourselves from others and climb the rolling hill and disappear behind leafless trees and spindle-like-brush. Whatever needs to be decided for the day seems doable and unimportant in the moment, like all things have their space and time and none of them reside in the moment I walk in, except walking.
Stella runs ahead and runs back with her medium-length ears flopping about her head, and I see enjoyment light up her furry, burnt sienna face, and I laugh and breath deep. I listen to the birds chirp and sing and watch the fat squirrels scurry up nearby trees with Stella on their tails.
Time has convinced me of the necessity of quiet and calm, of leisure and gratitude, of walking and breath. Our world feels hectic to me most of the time, and I can feel swayed by it's urgency and even begin to think I need to be fast to be more productive. I have not found this to be true, more like my productivity is attached to my efficiency, and if my efficiency is lacking, it won't matter how fast I go my productivity will falter. My efficiency comes from being and then doing and being requires me to experience the present moment now not two days from now in hindsight.
I walk with Stella and look at the blue sky and languid clouds and hear the birds chatter and the squirrels skitter over tree bark, and I know I'm right where I need to be, for each moment's potency nourishes the well-being of Me, in my entirety. My being now will bleed into the doing of my day, which will inevitably cultivate efficiency and therefore productivity will ensue. And, as a bonus, I won't be a fretting, impatient, irritable mess by the time I meet up with my kids after school. Life is simple if I treat it so.
