John Graves had a large farm. Like Cato the Elder, he worked the property, he cultivated it, he made money from it. But he once joked that property owners had to be careful. The little child, he said, roaming the hills and playing in the streams, may own it out from under you.

Because while you’re busy worrying, stressing, solving one problem after the next, they’re actually experiencing it. They’re the only ones truly living on it.

What Graves was speaking to the power of being present. Remember the story we told about Seneca walking his estates one day and only suddenly realizing how much time had elapsed—the trees were old, the house was worn. It’s something we can all relate to: He had been so busy that he hadn’t noticed. We can contrast this to some of Marcus Aurelius’ beautiful observations about the wheat and the olives and the hogs on his farm. He slowed himself down enough to really see, to really experience. Even if he sold his farm, he’d always possess those memories, that connection to the land. As emperor he controlled so much, but it’s funny to think that a child or a starving artist could be his equal, just by looking and noticing and being present.

When we talk about stillness, that’s what we’re talking about. Slowing down. Really seeing. Really owning. If you’re going a thousand miles an hour, if you see everything as a problem to be solved? What kind of life is that? And especially in a world where time once past can never be recovered, where everything is so fleeting, it’s a terrible shame to waste it.

Forget what your books and budgets say. Forget what’s on the deed. If you really want to own something, own this moment in front of you. Own what you’re doing. Be present. Be here now. Be still.