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After a holiday, there seems no better way to celebrate than to indulge in some Sloth, in particular if the indulgent one happens to have been the one who cooked, cleaned, and managed the holiday activities. Sloth is a state of mind much like wabi-sabi in which simplicity is best. Remaining in the confines of one’s bed in a state of partial stupor until quite late in the day (known by the unkind as “lounging”), requiring a family member to supply a cup of fresh tea on a tray to one’s bed, and, when finally rising, going about the house with porcupine hair left unbrushed for the household’s dismay, garbed in pajamas and robe, with no intent but to return to the bed or to a remote and cushy chair with a book—these are the common signs of Sloth.
But as in any state of wabi-sabi, Sloth offers myriad opportunities for perfection.
Extended bed time can be marked by conversations with a family member about a debut author’s novel of a 9/11 memorial or what could finally persuade David Cameron to lose his temper with Nick Clegg, and in that way be made a period of contemplation. A stained teacup could supply the natural imperfection demanded of wabi-sabi (add crookedly cut toast for a nice complement). Porcupine hair and a robe—why, that’s not only the perfect uniform for a morning of natural thought, but a prompt to do laundry, as well as an excuse to chase a child while roaring. But reading, wherever it is done, in a state of assumed Sloth or not, is in itself a noble activity; its Slothfulness is a myth created by non-writers and non-readers.
This is all to justify my post-Christmas morning. That it was spent with the two charming men of my family who were equally committed to such a state of glorified Sloth (and one to Legos) meant that it was a very good morning indeed.
I have spent the past few days in a sloth like state. Grudgingly took off the pajamas to don scrubs which are really just high falutent pajamas, going through caffeine withdrawals from the excessive amount of tea I consumed over the holidays, and had a difficult time convincing myself to go to work when I’d much rather continue the copious reading and writing of the past few days. Splendid post!
Ah, work! That is the worst part of removal from the period of Sloth. How often does work itself offer a wabi-sabi environment, unless one is Basho in the wilderness of Japan? (I’d also take a quiet cottage in the English moorland or Lake District, to be honest, though New England isn’t at all bad just now.) Good luck in resurrecting the blissful state of wabi-sabi Sloth when you’ve the next chance!
I love the term wabi-sabi. It reminds me of wasabi, which reminds me of sushi…yum.