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Nobody told
us. Well, nobody told me. I’m from a family of workers, obsessive workers, one
might say. In my family, sloth is a mere breath removed from slovenly and
slatternly. Nobody ever said choices were available. Not that I would have
availed myself of other choices, probably, life being what it is. Work being a
necessity for survival.
Until the
day I retired myself to a quiet corner of another country. Thus removed from
everyday obligations of my former life, I’ve time and opportunity to explore
other options for being.
It’s not
easy to shift gears. I’ve not seen any self-help books toward a lazier way of
being. There are no gurus pointing the way to this so-called lesser life, none
that I’ve seen.
In fact,
quite the opposite. The words “sloth” and “lazy’ are rife with negative
connotations. The notion of inactivity is sneered at, considered unhealthy,
un-American, sinful, never mind the flowers of the field which neither sow nor
reap.
On
particularly lazy days, I struggle with guilt. I try not to let it bother me. Generally
I manage to overcome it.
I could
whitewash my sluggardly ways with more socially acceptable terms: meditation,
prayer, contemplation, rumination, reverie, cogitation (I like that one),
study. But, no, I’m becoming a master at simple, unadorned sloth.
My home is
acceptably clean. My garden is no more overgrown than my neighbors’. Despite my
sluggardly ways, I finish daily chores of seeming importance.
Projects of
various kinds linger in the wings, awaiting their time to take center stage.
Like today, for instance. Lingering on my ironing board is a piece I’ve quilted
plus backing, patiently waiting for me to pick it up and transform it into
pillow coverings. In the kitchen I’m drying tarragon. Soon I’ll pluck the slender
leaves and share its goodness with neighbors. I’ve two pair of capri pants that
I intend to dye with dark, dark coffee.
None of my
projects are urgent. None of these projects take much time. And herein lies the
key to sloth. Time.
In this land
of “manana”, time is my friend. Manana might mean tomorrow. Or it could be used
for next week. Or any number of days hence.
So I
prioritize what is most important to me at the moment. Other parts of my life
are directed purely by whim and interruptions.
Today Samantha
came over to ask for help with curtains, help I’m glad to give. Kathy and
Richard leave tomorrow, not to return before April. So I walk over to their
casa for a last visit. Nancie and Pat are coming over in an hour just to sit for
a visit under the jacaranda.
And so my
days go, filled with friends, filled with sloth, filled with butterflies.
In the
cracks and crevices between these above important things, I go to town to put
pesos on my Mexican cell phone. I buy my bus ticket for a three-day jaunt to
Mazatlan. I pack my suitcase.
Next week I
might make my pillow slips. I might dye my pants. I might strip dry leaves from
my tarragon.
For sure
I’ll visit my friends. For sure I’ll read books. For sure I’ll set aside time
for lizards, hibiscus the size of dinner plates, and the butterflies, ah, the pretty
whirling butterflies.
Sondra
Ashton
HDN: Looking
out my back door
November 7,
2109
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