Some days, I find myself mostly in bed unable to be “productive” in a conventional sense.
It allows me to question what productive means to me, and also that being productive is somehow better than not being productive.
I see that I have been quite productive today. I have explored finding peace with what’s here, meeting it in satsang, finding it as love and finding love for it, and more.
And I see that only a thought would say that something is being productive and something else is not, and that being productive is better than not being productive.
Life – the universe as a whole – apparently thinks that what I did (or didn’t do) today was the most important thing that could happen. Who am I to argue?