On Doing Very Little
Against the cult of optimization, an argument for sitting on a bench and watching the clouds move. Twelve minutes, give or take.
The path from the gate is barely a hundred paces, but I have learned to walk it as though it were longer. The garden asks for patience before it offers anything in return.
Eight years in, and they gather at the eastern bank when I pass. Whether this is memory or habit I cannot say — but something in the pond knows the shape of my shadow.
You cannot hurry still water. You can only bring your hurry to it, and let the water have its way.
Feeding the fish has become the closing parenthesis of my day — a small, necessary ritual. The sun goes down. The surface breaks. I am reminded I am not the center of anything.
A quiet newsletter and occasional essay collection from a small garden in the hills — written slowly, posted rarely, read (I hope) with a cup of tea in hand.
Against the cult of optimization, an argument for sitting on a bench and watching the clouds move. Twelve minutes, give or take.
He appeared on the stone by the north pond — small, brown, entirely unconcerned with my presence. I stayed until my knees ached.
They sank to the bottom and did not eat for three weeks. Neither, it turned out, did I. A short piece on wintering, together.
There is a particular hush that falls over a garden under fresh snow. I tried, this morning, to write it down. I was not entirely successful.