Somewhere over the course of the last two years, I learned to sit still. My friend, Charlotte, who as a child spent endless hours in the pews of her community church, comes by this pastime naturally. For me, the act of sitting still, staring at a wall, a cloud in the sky, a splodge of paint on the floor, has never come naturally. I fidget, I pace, I find something to do. Pick up the dry cleaning, roll out some clay, squeeze in a swim. Waiting for the gynecologist to arrive was always a test. I’d scan the walls for babies that my baby might look like. I’d scroll through my phone for unusual baby names. “Niobe?” Waiting for flights was another test. What a bore. “We are currently boarding passengers in zone one.” Fack. And what of the countless hours spent sitting outside a gym/swimming pool/dance hall/rink etc… while my children learned a new skill? I talked to more people, exchanged more life stories, highs, lows, traumas, tantrums and triumphs in these hours, than in any others. Never did I find a quiet spot to roll into a child’s pose in. These days, I would. These days, I do. “What are you doing?” my son asked me earlier as he walked in to find me sitting upright on the sofa staring at the wall. “Nothing.” Doing nothing, I have come to appreciate, is a pastime. And a worthy one, at that. Through yoga practice, I am learning to sit still for very long periods of time. My mind is rarely as still, but like clouds moving through the sky, the thoughts come, and then they go.