The Infinite Here

A light-hearted poem about how much it sucks to not be able to enjoy a cup of tea without productivity guilt.


The Infinite Here

it’s in those moments,
we hear the sit, stay, just be still
so we sit for a while and decide to chill

but we feel a pang of guilt
for allowing relaxation to creep into
our schedule of run, hurry, pay that bill

stillness – the enemy in a world of anything but;
competes with the doing, the striving,
the behaving, and all the musts

and poor stillness, for he inevitably loses
as competition is not a game he plays;
he only knows how to comfortably sit still,
watching the ebb and flow of the bay

he knows not how to worry,
how to pretend, how to compare;
he knows only of what he’s feeling,
who he’s with, and the crisp spring air

the freshness surrounds us,
yet the staleness of mere doing
makes our black coffee bitter
and our nerves run quicker

leaving little space for the being,
the absorbing, or the breathing of air;
and so we get up from our seats,
convinced we’re simply waiting
for a better time to be right here

so stillness is left to his lonesome,
counting his fingers; he’ll tug gently
at our coats, hoping we’ll discover
that all the chasing we’re doing

will make for nothing
but a lifetime of blunder
for what we’ve hoped for in achievement
is found only in the ineffable wonder

stillness – our estranged friend
who we’ve yet to encounter
on our path back to ourselves
until then, our lives run counter

to who we really are –
not the ifs or the whens;
but the now, this moment –
the infinite here

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