I was on the bus today, when I began to rejoice in being still. You know those times when you realise you can't change your circumstances - you can't make the bus go faster, the person behind you talk softer, the air be warmer. And so you just sit, and rest, and stop thinking, and manage to be still, not really because you meant to, but because what else is there to do. And then you realise it's probably the first time today that you've really let go.
That is a good feeling.
Yesterday, I was sitting on a bench in the middle of a mangrove listening to a talk on my ipod about patience, taking in the salty air and watching tiny crabs burrow into soft mud, my back warmed by dappled sunlight. It was glorious. Until a pack of tourists came past hoisting cameras to their faces, smoking cigarettes, swigging from cans and chattering away about something I couldn't understand.
I felt kind of violated. Well I felt like the moment had been violated. And then I realised that I didn't own the mangrove, or the moment. And then I realised that if anyone were to look at my life from a distance, I would look like a sweaty tourist, ambling through life carelessly, mindlessly destroying what's good and generous about the world and the people in it. And then I was thankful for the tourists.