To Sit

It's raining outside. I can hear the drops drip off the gutter and into quickly forming pools of water. There's a slight chill to the summer air. Norah Jones is serenading me in the background as I lazily sit on the floor of my living room, taking indescribable bites of comfort. Grilled cheese. With each bite the cheddar oozes towards my bowl of tomato soup (made with half milk, half water, of course) and then strings itself from my mouth to the descending sandwich. It's slightly burnt, but that's to be expected. It's nothing a little scraping couldn't fix. I am alone. And I am content. I should be revising my paper, but I choose to bask in this moment, a moment so complete with peace. Sometimes I forget to just sit and listen to the world around me. Sometimes it's raining and I don't even notice, except for the worry of what it is going to do to my hair. Sometimes I realize I'm not even really thinking, but merely moving down a checklist. It's good to breathe once in awhile. But often times, one has to make breathing a conscious exercise. To sit is, for many, an art form. To sit at the end of land and gaze out at the open sea; to lay on the green grass and gaze up at the stars; to find oneself deep in the middle of the forest, all sound muffled by the trees; to sit on the river's edge, feet dangling in the cold mountain water as it rushes by; to rock in a chair on a porch, the sun setting over the fields in front of you; to sit on one's living room floor eating Grilled Cheese, listening to Norah Jones as the rain comes down outside your window. To sit. To be content. It's moments like these that, in the end, really matter. It's moments like these that, when all is said and done, make us who we are. I hope to have many more.