Resting.

It used to be that I'd pull one of my boss' chairs askew and sit in the dark inner office to meditate. Or I'd find fifteen minutes when I got home before picking up the kids to sit and be still on the bedroom carpet; my fat kitty's presence palpable beside me and the view of the woods known beyond closed eyelids.

I haven't meditated in a long while; the humdrum of daily life clawed me back into waking, getting ready, bus stops, work, shopping, exercising, cooking, homework, dinner, cleaning, housework and now rehearsals. And, somewhere in there a modicum of sleep. It's shameful to say that I have no time to meditate because there is always time; time is here, time is now. I spend hours alone at work; I could easily practice but I don't.

Like a mental, gentle flick of the wrist, the idea is often dismissed.  The irony being that I won't truly discover why I balk unless I investigate.

I miss nature; her sweet warmth and soul-rejuvenating properties. I miss the Sangha. The awful weather combined with my schedule has made it an impossible venture. I miss introspection. Real, deep, swimming-in-your-soul searching.

Perhaps I'm hibernating; resting while I coast on what I know, with my foot off the soul accelerator. Continuing to abide by my truth; offering lovingkindness to all I meet, addressing emotion, and accepting thought. Getting by satisfactorily until I feel ready to go swimming again. And all the while, aware of that tricky voice which speaks up with reprimands about one's lack of 'doing.'