As someone who enjoys movement, activity, and exercise, I’ve learned the hard way how to handle what I’ll call “forced rest.” Sometimes life leaves you no choice and, in those moments, the only option you have is acceptance.

Three years ago, I underwent a total hip replacement. The decision to have this major surgery was a no-brainer because I couldn’t venture out on my usual walks without pain. For me, walking is crucial to my mental health and well-being. A walk is time alone with myself where my mind relaxes, merges with nature, and expands. If days (or God forbid weeks) go by without that essential, solitary time placing one foot in front of the other, restlessness and anxiety creep into my body and mind.

Three years ago, the promise of a new, functional left hip was the only viable choice in order to maintain my mobile lifestyle. Although recovery from that surgery took months, it was worth the wait. Today my hip feels better than ever; I walk with a stable, smooth gait—confirmation that the surgery was indeed the correct choice at that difficult and frustrating time.

I’d forgotten much of what that long recovery period was like. I do remember the pain. I remember the inability to get myself into bed or to climb the stairs. I remember the excruciating swelling of my left foot, and having to rely on using a cane to move about for a much longer time than I desired or anticipated. But I’d forgotten about a significant insight I’d gained regarding an unexpected benefit of “forced rest.” Until now.

A couple of weeks ago I underwent another major surgery. This one wasn’t a no-brainer. I had a choice: to have a hysterectomy, or have the doctor attempt a riskier surgical procedure that had less chance of guaranteed success. The hysterectomy option was initially abhorrent to me. How could I consent to having some of my internal organs sliced out of my body? I sought a second opinion which (sadly to me) confirmed the reality: the best and safest option for me was to choose the hysterectomy.

Post surgery, I was forced to slow down as my body healed and recovered. The first few days were the worst. My body simply refused to cooperate with any of its normal functions. I had no choice but to accept the fact that for the next six to eight weeks my active lifestyle would be on “hold.” No more lifting heavy buckets to water my plants. No more transplanting and weeding my garden beds. No more long walks, biking, hiking, swimming, or kayaking. And no more fitness or mobility routines. During the day I mostly sat still—sometimes in meditation, sometimes at my desk, and sometimes watching old reruns of Downton Abbey on television. But what I <em>didn’t</em> expect from all the idleness, and what came as a delightful surprise, was this: As my body slowed, my mind slowed as well, and as a result everything around me appeared suddenly miraculous, surreal, and wonderful. This freeing experience helped me realize on a deeply profound level that for every downside life throws at you, there is a concurrent upside hidden beneath life’s noise and hustle. You only have to slow down and look.

When I talk to people about my time on retreat at a Buddhist monastery, I always mention that the first thing I was instructed to do was to slow down. What makes slowing down so powerful is that it grounds you in the present moment. The slower you move, the more you observe. The more you observe, the closer you pay attention. The result: you become intricately attuned to everything around you as it’s happening. During recovery, I had nowhere to go, nothing of any consequence to “do.” I could simply be, watch, and savor the precious moment.

When your body and mind slow, you absorb and appreciate aspects of life you might normally miss if your mind and body are rushing to the next thing on your to-do list. During my “forced rest” my senses became deliciously heightened. The birdsong sounded sweeter and more pronounced. The aroma of spring air was richer. Colors appeared more vibrant. And the best part: My mind was bathed in peace and contentment.

I came across a quote the other day from a poem by Rilke which reinforced this point of slowing down:

“Look: trees simply are. The houses we live in still remain in place. We alone fly past all things, as fugitive as the wind.”

I’m not suggesting that everyone have major surgery in order to experience this wondrous, liberating state of mind. But we can look for opportunities to practice acceptance, observation, and stillness, opening to what’s right in front of us. We can try to take some time each day, as little as five or ten minutes, to consciously slow down. To notice. To open. To accept life just as it is. Let’s be still and tall and watchful as the trees, allowing the busy world to fly by around us. You might be amazed at what unfolds.