The hardest thing for me to do is sitting still, so when I have a chance to do so, I do. When planning my first (real & no-work, no-computer) vacation, I promised myself — I will learn to just sit still.
And that is what I did. I just sat on a bench, in the shadow of vines older than my apartment building in San Francisco. My feet touched the cold stones, brown and green with age and moss, shaped by wind and moisture, and a countless number of people who might have walked on them. The wood of the bench showed its many years, much like the creases on the face of a wizard.
I wondered about how many and who sat there before me, looking straight ahead into an olive grove, prevented from running wild by those who tended for them. Did others wonder about the almost regal Italian Cypresses, elegant and slim, much like the beautiful ladies I saw the other day in a Florence.
I just sat there, watching sun play hide and seek with the clouds, some dark, swollen with moisture and others, just fluffy and pristine, adding to the backdrop. An angry bee buzzed overhead, grasshoppers made the noise they make and birds chirped. There are so many of them. And I can’t tell which bird is making what call — I am too urban for my own good. All I could tell was the flutter of pigeons flying off in a hurry, muttering loudly, as if they had something important to do.
I sat and sat, saw sun flirt with the green hills – turning them bright green one moment and then painting them a dark shade of dark, green. Vineyards, farms and thick woodlands — just there, not moving, not going anywhere, but just standing still like god’s mannequins. I didn’t think. My mind slowed down to crawl. My eyes just saw. My body felt the air, warm a minute, cool the next. The ears just trying to listen to the universe. I did nothing. I was sitting still.
It still is the hardest thing to do.