It’s after 11 and I’m still in my pajamas, having just finished my second shot of espresso.  I’m sure a third is not too far off.  Jade is tinkering in the garage, the brothers are piled in a single bed reading together, my love is exercising in his office, and I’m sitting here listening to the sounds of a quiet family Sunday.

I can’t quite remember the last time a morning unfolded as slowly as this, and it’s wonderful.  In a little while, I’ll extract myself from my favorite spot and prepare a simple lunch.  Afterward, we’ll set the timer and race about tending to our chores in synchronized fashion, followed by an afternoon of nothing. 

In the book I finished yesterday, the author encourages folks to claim nothing for the something it is.  Nothing, she says, is the white space where ideas are often born.  I practically shouted in agreement as I read this.  Pockets of unscheduled time are a precious resource, and are absolutely essential to my own process.  I need time to think, to recuperate, to enjoy the space I have worked so hard to create.  For me, nothing is one of my favorite things to do.

But!  In order for me to really appreciate having nothing on my agenda, I have to feel like I have earned it.  I’m terrible at sitting still if there is something on my mind, and it’s easy for me to distract myself with busywork or fabricated obligations.  Which makes today even sweeter as there is, quite literally, nothing for me to use an excuse to keep from relaxing.

After nine weeks in quarantine, who could ask for anything more?