This winter was perfect; so long, so dark, so cold. And there was so little I had to do — get groceries, make some big pots of something.
I went to bed when I wanted. The same with getting up. "No where to go, nothing to do" was my life this past winter. I could start a fire and I did, most days. I dreamt, I read, I meditated, I drew, I slept some more. Many days I didn't leave the house. I watched entire series of some TV shows. Here in America where doing is king, I was the Queen of Being.
One friend, on Sabbatical, is working on writing three books — serious, academic books — while raising two teenaged granddaughters, and running a program at a major university. Always running, always behind. Doing good works, faithfully attending church, driving the granddaughters to piano lessons, violin lessons, gymnastics, and basketball. Doing myriad serious and righteous things in the world.
"And what are you doing this afternoon?" she asked over the phone. I answered, from my recliner, from my still-pajamaed body, "I'm going to a yoga class and later I may spend time with Carl Jung's Red Book."
Carl would have understood. This was more than enough for one afternoon.
