A few weeks ago we had Ian's mom, Dianne, visit us. There is a vulnerable transparency that is absolutely refreshing in having her around. I find this same characteristic of love in Ian, perhaps one of the things that drew me to him. Like mother like son, a true similarity exists between this pair. 

As I write this blog I chuckle at both Ian and Dianne filling their suitcases with books. Forgo the plastic trinkets of places visited, and pack up the possibilities that a mind wrapped up in a good book can bring. Voracious readers, inquisitive minds, and overflowing souls make them people you seek as life companions and friends. 

One of life's greatest gifts is in the natural authenticity of meaningful conversation; the conversations where through not much is spoken, you experience the words that are. 

I think it takes a truly authentic heart to be exposed enough to allow this type of pure communication to exist with another. Often with those of whom we are not entirely comfortable exposing such inner thoughts, we use conversation fillers, such as the weather. During Dianne's time here I truly don't think we ever talked about the climate, unless it was about its change and man's ethical responsibility towards slowing the process. 

Last night I had dinner with two very dear friends of which the above is also true. I often leave their presence feeling that words were not wasted on trivial fillers to offend silence. 

Perhaps this reflection comes at missing my husband (though I generally really do feel this way). Ian had to make an unexpected trip back home and has been gone the last week. The house, though cleaner, feels pretty empty. I actually miss the little morning tasks like scrapping the egg pan (during the 5% of the time when he is not vegan), rinsing out the tea press, cleaning the bathroom of little hair shavings or wiping the constantly dripping toothpaste off the counter (it just needs a lid!). Funny how in the rushed moments before going to work I often let out a little sigh before quickly doing the above tasks, and now through their absence, it causes me to reflect. 

The other day I did something a little weird. I guess I can be a little awkward anyway so perhaps for me this was characteristic. Regardless, I just sat in silence for 30 or so minutes and took in our condo. I didn't judge the wall for not being perfect or question the color of the couch we bought. I didn't allow my perception to be altered on what would fill the vacant corner or how the spider was making a home in the one above. I just sat and very slowly allowed my eyes to drift from corner to edge and take it in. And, after my eyes had their fill, I closed them and allowed my ears to experience their turn. I listened for the walls, the wood beams supporting them, the spider spinning his web, the air coming through the open window. When I was done I opened my eyes, and realized that I had just experienced leisure for leisure's sake. 

Then I got to thinking, can human existence be fulfilled in being exclusively a "workday" existence, 9-5? Do I define my days based on how physically productive I have been in regards to work or tangible achievements? I often wonder if the busyness of life is more of a reflection that we do not agree with our own existence; that behind all of our energetic activity, we are not at one with ourselves. And, like our conversations, we use "fillers" disguised as activity to define us. 

Leisure, then, is a condition of the soul and not merely a trip to Hawaii or some exotic beach. Not a weekend get-a-way or the antithesis of being at work. Most of us can honestly say that sometimes even our "vacations" can be more stressful than our actual work. It is a condition of being, a form of stillness that is necessary preparation for accepting reality. As I experienced in my condo, only the person who is still can hear. Such stillness is an manifestation of the soul's power, and leisure therefore becomes the disposition of perceptive understanding, of contemplative beholding, and immersion of true existence. In this place of non-activity, leisure becomes an invitation to commune with the immutable mystery of Being; to open ourselves as not the seize-er, but of the seized. 

In a way, leisure, stillness, and silence are some of the greatest teachers of life. And just like love, they give us the power to reflect and step beyond the working world into a time of holiness. They allow us to win contact with those superhuman, life-giving forces that can send us, renewed and alive again, into the busyness of life. 

Peace, love, and joy 

-Sarah