Behind the Puddle

There are times behind the puddle when it seems like everyone arrives at once.

The feeders are covered with birds.

Geese are wandering through the yard.

Mallards are swimming across the water.

Pinecone is doing whatever questionable thing Pinecone has decided to do that day.

Something moves along the opposite bank.

A heron flies overhead.

And I find myself looking from one thing to another, afraid I might miss something.

Then there are afternoons when almost nobody is here.

The feeders are quiet.

The puddle barely moves.

The wildlife has apparently found somewhere more interesting to spend the day.

And nothing happens.

I used to think one of those kinds of days was better than the other.

The busy days gave me something to watch.

Something to photograph.

Something to write about.

The quiet days felt like waiting for something to begin.

But after spending so much of this summer sitting here, I am starting to understand that both belong.

Nature doesn’t seem particularly concerned with being productive all day.

The geese eat and then lie down.

Birds visit the feeders and disappear.

The herons come when there is a reason to come and leave when there isn’t.

Even Pinecone eventually stops eating.

Probably.

The puddle has busy mornings and quiet afternoons.

There are days filled with visitors and days when hardly anyone appears.

Neither seems to indicate that something has gone wrong.

It is simply the rhythm of the place.

I wish humans were as comfortable with that.

We seem to have developed a strange relationship with rest.

We earn it.

Schedule it.

Apologize for it.

Feel guilty during it.

And sometimes turn resting into another task we are supposed to accomplish correctly.

Even when we finally sit down, part of us is still keeping inventory of everything we aren’t doing.

I know that feeling.

There is always something else that could be done.

Something that needs attention.

Someone who needs something.

A project that could move forward.

A message that could be answered.

A thing I could accomplish before the day is over.

But perhaps balance isn’t figuring out how to fit everything in.

Maybe balance includes accepting that everything was never going to fit.

Some things will wait.

Some things will remain unfinished.

Some days will be productive.

Others won’t.

And a quiet afternoon does not need to justify its existence by preparing us to work harder tomorrow.

Maybe rest has value simply because we are living creatures who need it.

The birds don’t seem embarrassed by that.

Neither do the geese.

And the puddle certainly doesn’t apologize when nothing interesting happens.

It simply rests there.

Still part of the landscape.

Still supporting life.

Still being enough.

Maybe fullness isn’t measured by how much we manage to squeeze into a day.

Maybe a full life has room for activity and quiet.

For doing and being.

For showing up and stepping away.

For the days when everything happens at once and the afternoons when absolutely nothing does.

Behind the puddle, both belong.

I’m beginning to think they belong in my life, too.