I gave myself permission to do nothing—
sat in the chair without an aim in sight,
watched the dust motes move in the afternoon
in the particular slant of autumn light.

No list, no task, no justifying purpose—
just the sitting and the breathing and the being,
the radical ordinary of the present moment,
the gift of just existing and just seeing.

We have been taught that rest must be earned,
that stillness has no value without after—
but the doing of nothing is its own full act,
and peace lives in the unproductive chapter.
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