The first frosty mornings are here. They carry the mood of a new beginning. Although they signify the end, the end of summer, the end of nature’s flourishing. For some reason, they evoke a sense of beginning for me. Everything is so fresh—the air, the ground beneath my feet, the forest. They exude a cold purity. It’s as if you could cleanse yourself just by being outside in the frosty air.

This is a piece in a series of writings that have nothing particularly remarkable to share. I wanted to share a small morning moment when I was cooking porridge, but it burned on the bottom because I got caught up admiring the sunbeams through the window. Why should I admire the sun only through the window? The porridge was left on the stove—it was already badly burnt and couldn’t be saved anyway—I threw on a wool sweater from the hook and stepped outside.

A few degrees of frost had made the blueberry bushes, glowing red, crispy and deliciously crunchy underfoot. It felt delightful to walk over them in my rubber boots. The sun stretched its rays through the branches of the forest down to the ground, yet didn’t bring much warmth at this time of the morning.

Is there a moment when you’re really not doing anything? Yesterday, I sat for a long while with a friend on the terrace, staring into the forest. So to speak, doing nothing and discussing whether there’s such a thing as doing nothing. I don’t believe so. Inactivity is often condemned as laziness, which is a great injustice. Laziness and doing nothing are still as far apart as a morning forest and potato chips. Ha!

I spent a moment on a frosty morning in the forest doing nothing. Sitting on a log that had fallen to the ground long ago. Listening to the wind gently sway the slender branches of the spruces back and forth. Watching the dance of the sunbeams on the lichen and playfully peeking through the branches. Feeling the cold air on my skin, exhaling new freshness.

Doing nothing is one of my favorite activities.