Snufkin’s Quiet No, the Dough’s Gentle Yes—and the Heart That Remembers You

Every time I take a “Which Moomin character are you?” quiz, the answer is the same.

And yes—I’ve taken more of them than might be reasonable. Just like I’ve once found out which ’90s pop star or houseplant I’d be.

But in Moominvalley, I’m always Snufkin. Or at least I want to be.

Not Moominmamma, not The Groke, not Stinky, not Hemulen—but the one who follows an inner call and leaves just as others start to plan.

The one who doesn’t make a fuss but quietly draws others in with a kind of gentle wisdom. Who doesn’t rush, even when the world around him does. Who knows that sometimes, being still is the greatest movement.

But life has a way of reminding us that wandering in quiet wisdom isn’t always simple.

A few summers ago, I was one of thousands of dad-clones at the Finnish theme park Moominworld: camera around my neck, shirt soaked in sweat, searching for Hattifatteners in the bushes and making sure my child didn’t vanish from view. My inner Snufkin was struggling – and an irritable Stinky was starting to take over.

And then something even more absurd happened: I hugged Snufkin—or rather, a summer employee dressed as him.

Under that thick fleece suit there may have been sweat, exhaustion, or summer job despair—but instead, I felt something else.

In its own strange way, the theme park’s Snufkin did his job. For one brief second, I stopped everything and embraced pure absurdity. I was a wanderer without a plan.

The kind often mistaken for lazy.

The Heart’s Quiet No

Social psychologist Devon Price has written about the laziness myth. According to him, the illusion runs deep: there are no lazy people.

There are only people who are tired. Exhausted. Confused. Hesitant. Slow. Healing. Or tired of moving in a direction their heart no longer wants to follow—even though the world keeps pushing.

Laziness may just be the name we give to quiet refusal. The body’s way of saying: not now. The heart’s way of retreating when the direction no longer feels true.

Price calls it honesty—the ability to listen to the body, to our limits and capacity, in a world that rewards burnout and forgets what it means to be human.

It’s not giving up—it’s listening. Not escaping the world—but yielding to what’s actually real.

The same wisdom is hidden in the old story of the fisherman and the businessman: the one where the businessman urges the fisherman to expand, hire staff, and build an empire—so that someday, once he retires, he can finally do what he already does now: fish and spend time with his family.

The story reminds us: the mind often takes a long detour, only to arrive where the heart already was.

But they don’t always meet.

When the heart’s voice goes unheard, it doesn’t disappear. But the heart starts to tire—and eventually it speaks through other means: fatigue, restlessness, a blank stare at your desk. A sudden urge to scroll for no reason.

Or the clear sense that everything feels like too much—and yet not quite enough.

You hear that same crack in fiction too. Like when Lisa Simpson pushes herself to perfection with her saxophone – in that episode where she collapses. Not because she achieved too little—but because she tried too long to be too good. To meet everyone else’s expectations. To fit into something that wasn’t hers.

Lisa didn’t need a new goal or metric.

She needed what Snufkin quietly carries with him—without saying a word: permission to exist and be worthy, even without achieving anything.

Even without doing anything at all.

Not Lazy, Just Rising

The word “lazy” is heavy.

It feels cold. Accusing. Unwanted. Maybe even morally suspicious. Not even like Stinky, who at least irritates with ambition.

Lazy feels like a loser. Laziness—like someone who lost.

In this world, a person is considered good when they’re productive, efficient, driven, and active. Rest is a reward, not a right. Stillness is avoidance. Fatigue is failure. And stopping—well, that’s laziness.

And laziness is bad. Even wrong.

No wonder, then, that when the body says: I can’t—the mind replies: I’m no good.

When the heart says: this doesn’t feel right—we push through, just so no one thinks we’re lazy. Or not enough.

And yet, life constantly offers small moments where some quiet knowing whispers: not everything is born through effort. Not even through doing.

Some things rise through rest. Like dough. I don’t bake often—but recently I watched my preschooler and toddler kneading dough, seriously and with purpose.

And it struck me how the dough really rises.

Sometimes laziness is like dough resting under a cloth in a kitchen bowl. You can’t rush it. You can’t force it with power or pressure.

Once you’ve done enough—added the flour, warmth, and kneading—all you can do is let it be. And that’s when the magic happens. Let the dough rest, and it rises on its own. Try to rush it, and you end up with something flat, dense, and disappointing.

Dough isn’t lazy. It doesn’t need commands, pressure, or a perfectly laid-out plan—just time and space to be.

We’ve all tried to live against the lessons of dough, even for decades. But some have realized: laziness isn’t the opposite of action.

Often, it’s the opposite of struggle. Or force. Or performing politeness. It may be the heart’s way of saying: now is not the moment.

And that’s when stopping might be the truest thing—even if the world keeps rushing past, shouting at your back: l-a-z-y.

In that shout, you might just hear the first whisper of freedom – the kind you can’t hear unless you stop.

Laziness Remembers What Busyness Forgets

Life isn’t easy. It brings bills, responsibilities, schedules, and everyday mess.

But then again—without electricity bills, work, or obligations, we might be like Moominmamma without a jam-making mission. Something would be missing.

Not everything has to become a Snufkin-style journey. But maybe we don’t always need to run in circles with Stinky either—just because we didn’t dare to pause. Or ask: why am I always in motion?

Sometimes movement is true. Sometimes it’s evasion—an escape disguised as determination. Or restlessness dressed up as efficiency.
And sometimes, what we call laziness really is avoidance.

But often, it’s the heart’s quiet reflex—a way to protect what’s real when everything around starts to feel false.

The heart needs no strategy. No roadmap. No goal. It just waits—quietly—for the moment when pretending is no longer needed.

True action doesn’t arise from pressure, fear, or pleasing others. Not from having to be something or from constantly going somewhere.
It emerges from stillness.

From a place where we no longer react to expectation—but move because something inside us moves and stirs.

Like dough that rises—not because it was pushed forward with calendars and productivity metrics, but because it was given space to rest.

Laziness isn’t a flaw—it’s a message. Not weakness, but a reminder:

You are not a project to be improved or fixed.

You are something quiet and original—something that was true before any doing began.

Something that remembers you, when you’re lazy enough to stop.

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