I don’t know of many. But of those I do, I think of as exemplars. They know how to be still. As I don’t. They ask little of themselves, or at least they appear not to. For what do I know, really. Diski described herself as having the metabolism of a sloth. I am not talking of idleness but that slow, taking care. One writes of taking a notebook, a pen and a flask of tea to go and watch a river. The other, not as sagacious or as grounded emotionally, reads all day, every day. She says she is protecting her mental health by not asking too much of herself. I understand that need. I am the opposite and sometimes I wish I wasn’t. I am never good enough. I don’t think that the first woman, the one with the notebook, believes that of herself. At least I like to think that is the case. My dreamed-up escapes always involve solitude in a white, uncluttered space, borrowed and somewhere I am not responsible for. Empty walls and an expansive, equally uncluttered landscape. I want this for my heart, my soul and my brain. For I am tired. And forever tight with anxiety. And yet, I am living. And there is much to be grateful for.
