Sometimes I quite desperately want to have nothing to do. I want time to be a little bored, time to watch the slow blossoming of the almond trees, time to quieten this hungry mind that thinks it needs to devour everything it is offered.

Most of us are so busy, so saturated by information that we even think we are living more intensely if we have a full agenda. We must do the workshops, the self-help course, see the film everyone is talking about, go to social gatherings in case we miss out on something and lag behind, not forgetting the energy and care we pour into our work and families if we have them. All this is fine in the right measure even though it might be addictive armour to ward off the wolf of loneliness, but not when there is no time to listen to the humming silence beneath all these rapid comings and goings and visionings. Because that silence is the only thing that lasts and the only way to reach it is by mental detoxing.

Now having nothing to do has become a luxury. Long gone are the days when as a child I would look at the patterns drawn on the walls from the sunlight and invent stories about them. From ‘boredom’ there arise ideas and intuitions which are normally left dormant under ‘busyness’, as do aspects of ourselves that we have pushed under the bed to make room for the onslaught of new input, new information which just dances on the surface of our minds. And what of children nowadays? They are sadly never bored.

And from saturation comes exhaustion. Just to unwind takes an enormous effort because there are so many layers to peel off. How far away from ourselves have we travelled when we need to do courses to reconnect to our true selves. Should we even need to think about it? Should we even need to be reminded how to go about it?

Here is a poem I wrote time ago. It is from my book Poems of Joy and Melancholy.

Nothing to Do

I’m free today No debts to pay No meals to make. Just feeling the blood Run in my veins, Hearing that bird Heralding spring Like every year And watching the sun Spangle the leaves Of the sighing sycamore.

I’m content today In my old dressing gown, My hair on end, No need for preening. Just happy to listen To the blood coursing, The silence growing, Opening the warm lotus Of the heart. The privilege of being On this still Sunday morn With only the birds trilling In a gentle breeze While the universe Enfolds us and rolls us In its circular dance.