I was tempted to unzip my rucksack. But I’m glad I didn’t.

On giving our brains a break, and reconnecting with the world around us.

‘It’ll be at least forty minutes before we’ll have any lunch ready,’ said the waitress at the small restaurant, housed in a sixteenth-century stone farmhouse in the Slovenian Alps, when we arrived at 12.30pm.

Had a London restaurant told me I’d have to wait that long, I’d have probably walked out. But on holiday alone with my husband, time felt unusually capacious. There was no work to do, no admin to attend to, no child to pick up.

And there was a terrace, overlooking the valley, on which we could wait. A terrace we had all to ourselves, and on which we were served cold drinks, made from homemade basil syrup. And where the only sounds were an occasional crow from one of the cockerels strutting around, and the church bells pealing on the quarter hour.

Knowing we had at least forty minutes, my mind jumped to how I could best use them: read my book, Trieste & the Meaning of Nowhere, which I was keen to finish before we headed to the city the following day; or the long New York Times article I’d bookmarked, on grief and creativity; or the load of blog posts, piled up in my inbox on the Substack app. I reached for my rucksack, where my phone and book were. Then stopped myself from unzipping it.

Because this terrace sloped down to a buttercup-studded meadow, beyond which rose rocky, snow-capped mountains. Above their peaks were clouds, some dark-grey and foreboding, others fluffy as freshly-whisked egg whites. Why was I about to bury my head in a book or a screen when all this was in front of me? In a place I may never get to visit again.

I was tempted to turn towards words, because I’m often hungry for them. I love stories, and am forever seizing opportunities to ingest more. Which is, in some ways, a good thing. But my hunger often feels frenzied, almost breathless, as I devour article after article on my phone, attempting to cram one in while standing in line to buy coffee. Or running my son’s bath. And, occasionally, even while walking down the street. All of which can leave me feeling ungrounded, and disconnected from the life unfolding around me.

It is, of course, wonderful to ingest the creations of others, be it their words, images or sounds. These can inspire, educate, move and uplift us. And given the amount of information available at our fingertips, it’s tempting to keep devouring. But just as savouring a good meal offers us sustenance and nourishment, giving our digestion a proper break between meals is as important.

Can we make time to pause, and simply receive the world, giving our overstimulated minds a chance to rest and replenish. In the fertile void that opens up, we also create space for new ideas to land and percolate. And pausing helps us remember we’re not just eyes and a brain, receiving an endless stream of information. We are also a body, held by the earth, and belonging to this world.

I managed to stay away from my phone and book while we waited for lunch. Instead, I reclined a bench, feeling its rough-hewn timber surface beneath me, and the warm, crisp air against my face. I sat up and took in the ancient tree in front of me, its cantilevered branches almost like the arms of a mythical creature. And I strolled around and breathed in the elderflower-scented air, crouched low to the ground to get close to the purple and yellow pansies, the rosemary, mint and basil growing out of planters created from tree trunks. And in doing so was reminded how the world, in its unadulterated form, offers us so much.

You don’t have to be in a beautiful Alpine setting to do this. You could be on a bench in your local park, at a sidewalk café table in the midst of a busy city. You could even take a moment, right now, to look up from the screen you’re reading this on, and sense the surface which is holding your body, the rise and fall of your breath, the beating of your heart. And with soft eyes, take in the sights around you: the way light falls across a wall, or the branches of a tree sway in the breeze.

Because pausing isn’t wasted time. It’s precious respite for our minds, and a chance to re-anchor ourselves in the world, just as it is. And just as we are.

Love,

Annabel x