I sat outside this morning with a cup of coffee and absolutely nothing to do. Well, that’s not entirely true. There were plenty of things I could have been doing. A load of laundry needed attention, my desk was covered with papers, and there were several articles I had promised myself I would finish before the week was over.
But the morning was pleasant, the chair was comfortable, and I couldn’t think of a single good reason to get up.
So I stayed where I was.
I don’t know when doing nothing became something we felt compelled to apologize for. Somewhere along the way, we decided that every hour ought to have a purpose, every day ought to produce something, and sitting quietly in a chair was acceptable only if we were recovering from an illness or waiting for someone.
Even retirement, which I once imagined would be a long and glorious stretch of unclaimed hours, seems to come with an expectation that we should be busy enjoying ourselves. We ought to travel, volunteer, learn another language, take up painting, join a club, or at least have something interesting to report when someone asks what we’ve been doing.
Apparently, doing nothing isn’t considered much of an accomplishment.
I’ve noticed that people rarely admit to it. Ask someone how they’ve been, and they’ll usually tell you they’ve been busy. Sometimes they’ll say it with a little sigh, as though they’re exhausted by all the demands being made on their time. Other times there’s a hint of pride in the answer. Busy means necessary, I suppose. It suggests that people need us and that our days are filled with important things.
I wonder what would happen if we simply said, “I’ve been sitting on the porch watching the birds.”
Would that be enough?
When I was a child, nobody seemed particularly concerned about filling every minute of the day. There were chores, of course, and plenty of them, but there were also long afternoons when nothing much happened. We sat under trees, watched ants carry things twice their size, and wondered where the clouds were going. Nobody suggested that we ought to be using that time to improve ourselves.
I remember lying in the grass looking up at the sky, occasionally closing one eye to see whether it made the clouds look different. I could spend an extraordinary amount of time doing something as pointless as that.
I haven’t tried it in years. Getting down into the grass wouldn’t be the problem. Getting back up might require a little planning.
But I miss those afternoons. Not necessarily the childhood part, although that was pleasant enough, but the freedom of being entirely unconcerned with what came next.
As adults, we seem to carry tomorrow around with us. While we’re washing dishes, we’re thinking about what needs to be done after supper. When we’re reading a book, we’re remembering an email we haven’t answered. Even on vacation, people make schedules so they can be certain they don’t waste a minute of their time away.
I’ve done the same thing myself. I can turn a perfectly enjoyable interest into a project before I’ve even had a chance to enjoy it. One photograph becomes a collection to organize. One idea becomes an article to write. A book I want to read somehow becomes another item on a list.
There’s nothing wrong with having things to accomplish. I like working, and I like the satisfaction of finishing something I’ve started. A day spent writing or working in the garden can be a very good day indeed.
But I don’t believe every day needs to end with evidence that I’ve been productive.
This morning, while I sat with my coffee, a small bird landed on the fence and began examining something in the grass below. I watched it for several minutes. It hopped along the fence, disappeared into a shrub, and returned to almost exactly the same spot. Whatever business it was attending to seemed terribly important to the bird, although I couldn’t begin to guess what it was.
Had I been inside working at my desk, I would have missed the whole performance.
Of course, nothing remarkable happened. The bird didn’t do anything unusual, and I didn’t learn anything that I couldn’t have found in one of my bird books. It was simply a few minutes of watching a living creature go about its morning.
I enjoyed it immensely.
Perhaps that’s what we’ve forgotten about doing nothing. It doesn’t mean that nothing is happening. It means we’ve stopped trying to make something happen.
The world carries on quite nicely without our supervision. Trees grow, shadows move across the ground, and birds conduct their mysterious little affairs whether we’re watching or not. Every now and then, it’s pleasant to be an observer instead of a participant.
Eventually, I finished my coffee and went back inside. The laundry was still waiting, the papers hadn’t moved, and the unfinished articles were exactly where I’d left them.
I attended to a few things, put off a few others, and decided the rest could wait until tomorrow.
I suppose I accomplished less than I had intended.
But I had a lovely morning.
And for once, I don’t think it needs to count as anything more than that.
~Deborah