I did nothing this Sunday and it might be the most productive thing I've done all month.
Here's the context. I've been a person who schedules brunch three weekends out and treats rest like a task to complete efficiently. Very New York, very toxic, very me. So this week I forced it. A slow Sunday in Prospect Park with zero plans.
I took the Q down to Brooklyn, grabbed a bagel from a deli on Flatbush, egg and cheese on everything, foil still warm through the paper bag, and just walked into the park with no destination.
A slow Sunday in Prospect Park is a specific kind of medicine. Prospect Park doesn't perform the way Central Park does. It's less postcard, more neighborhood. Kids with cricket bats, which made me smile because home is everywhere if you look. A drum circle near the Nethermead going since who knows when. Dogs living their absolute best lives.
I found a patch of grass near the Long Meadow and just sat. No podcast. No emails. I watched a couple attempt a picnic in the wind and fail beautifully. I ate my bagel too fast, like I always do, and then regretted having nothing left to do with my hands.
That's the hard part of a slow Sunday. The stillness makes you notice how loud you've been living. My brain kept reaching for a to-do list like a phantom limb.
But eventually it settled. The September light came through the trees all gold and forgiving. I lay back and let the ground hold me, which is a thing I forget I'm allowed to do.
I thought about how in Ahmedabad, doing nothing on a Sunday isn't rebellious, it's just Sunday. Family, chai, an afternoon nap nobody apologizes for. Somewhere between there and here I learned to feel guilty about rest, and I'd like to unlearn it.
I stayed until the light went low and then took the Q home slightly sunburnt and completely calm.
Do nothing. On purpose. It counts.
Love,