Sit. Just for a while. Let the porch hold you, and the air do its slow work of unwinding what the day has tightened.
We forget that rest is not the absence of meaning. It is meaning at its most honest. When we stop, we remember what we were running toward. We remember whom we were running with.
This is the chair our parents sat in, and theirs before them. The wood is darker now, smoothed by other hands, other lifetimes. There is room here for you, too.
Lay it down — the worry, the unfinished sentence, the message you forgot to send. The world will keep its appointments without you for an hour.
Reflection is what makes a life feel like it has been lived, rather than merely survived. Take the time. There is more of it than you think.
