The Art of Sitting in the Yard and Calling It a Plan

There is a lawn chair in my backyard that has been there since I was probably twelve. It's the kind of plastic patio chair that leaves a grid pattern on the back of your legs and makes a sound like a dying goose every time you shift your weight. It is not comfortable. I have been sitting in it for almost an hour.

I didn't come outside with a plan. That's the honest version. I brought the lemonade out because I was thirsty, sat down for a second, and then just... didn't get up. The afternoon was warm but not oppressive, the kind of June afternoon where the air smells like grass and someone a few streets over is mowing. I had my point-and-shoot on me, I've been carrying it around more lately, half for the blog, half because I feel like I should be documenting things right now even if I'm not sure why, and I set it on the railing and let the timer run a few times. Not because anything interesting was happening. Because nothing was, and that felt like its own kind of thing worth keeping.

thinking about everything and nothing, as per usual

I've been thinking a lot lately, which, if you've read any of my recent posts, is not exactly breaking news. The gap-year screenshots are still on my phone. The community college website is still in my browser history. I keep opening them and closing them and not doing anything about either one. Sitting out here, watching the light go from afternoon-bright to almost-golden, I didn't figure any of it out. But for about forty-five minutes I also wasn't trying to. The lemonade got warm. The chair made the goose noise every time I breathed too hard. I stayed anyway.

I think that's probably worth noting somewhere. That I stayed. That sometimes 'nothing' is actually a thing you chose, and the choosing is the part that matters.