A Book Under A Tree

A friend once asked why I hadn’t written in so long. I told him it’s slow living. I write when I feel like it or when something reminds me. At other times, I’m quite content just living quietly, without hurry.

Over the past few months, I’ve found a few quiet spots where I can sit, lean against a tree, and lose myself in a good book. Reading outdoors, with the sounds and scents of nature all around, feels very different from sitting inside. The world outside often vies for my attention. If it’s more interesting than the book, I drift away and forget to read. But when the book grips me, everything else fades. Sometimes a bird passes overhead or a soft breeze stirs the leaves, and I look up for a moment before returning to the story.

At first, I used to worry about insects crawling near me or a hare sneaking up from behind while I sat reading. I would keep glancing around, half-alert, unsure of what might happen next. But over time, I’ve come to appreciate their quiet, mindful way of life. The insects go about their work without the least concern for me, as if I’m not even there. The hares, curious but cautious, will peek from the undergrowth, size me up, and then return to their own world, usually raiding my vegetable patch in search of cabbages. I’ve stopped worrying. Let them have their feast; I’ll have mine in the form of peace and a good book.

That’s what this slow life is all about. Watching, listening, and simply being. No rush, no fuss. My friend, these are just a few of the reasons I’ve come to love this unhurried way of living. It’s not about escaping the world, it’s about learning to sit with it, quietly, and letting it unfold around you.

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