Note: another story from my journal from June, 2022

Rosemary is more than a herb, she’s also my rescue dog. She doesn’t care about the view.

We’ll be halfway up a ridge, surrounded by enough scenery to make a postcard jealous, and Rosemary will stop and lie down next to a rock like she owns the place. Not tired. Not hurt. Just… done for now.

It used to drive me nuts. I’d be timing our ascent, counting switchbacks, thinking ahead to where I wanted to pitch the tent. Meanwhile, my dog was already home.

Over time, I stopped trying to coax her along. I started sitting down next to her.

There’s this rhythm I fall into when I’m in motion—on the trail, in the kitchen, even just driving with a podcast on. I get addicted to forward. Always one more mile, one more task, one more thing to prep. But Rosemary? She’s a full-stop dog. Not a pause. A stop. No apologies, no hurry.

Last fall we found this perfect pocket of sunlight beneath a cluster of juniper. It was that mid-afternoon gold that makes you forget time entirely. I sat next to her, leaned back against my pack, and listened. No wind. No birds. No trucks. Just breath and dirt and quiet.

It felt like a reset. Like maybe I didn’t need to be constantly building or finishing or rushing to justify the day. That there’s value in being useless for an hour.

I think that’s what she was trying to teach me.

Sometimes I carry that same mindset into the kitchen. Not every meal needs to be a showstopper. Not every sauce needs five ingredients and a reduction. Sometimes it’s just scrambled eggs and hot sauce. A plate of roasted squash with good salt. A bowl of beans, a spoon, and a little gratitude.

Stillness doesn’t sell cookbooks. But it makes damn good company.

And if you ever find yourself racing to the next thing, I highly recommend lying down next to a dog who’s already figured it out.