stillness

“I felt in need of a great pilgrimage, so I sat still for three days…” Kabir

I found this in a card shop years ago. (Art by the brilliant Pamela Zagarenski.) The idea of a transformational journey of stillness has been with me for a long time.

I loved the show Northern Exposure. (It was part of the reason I wanted to move to Washington.) The setting was a tapestry of pine forests and sparkling lakes with eagles and elk and fresh air and the characters were (mostly) kind and well-intentioned. There was a lot of eccentricity and a little magical realism. Right up my alley.

In one episode, Joel, the prickly doctor, makes a snide comment about what Marilyn, his laconic receptionist, does all day. She just sits there, he points out. Unruffled, she turns to him, saying: You couldn’t do it. He scoffs and sets out to prove her wrong. And she’s right. He can’t. High-strung, accomplished Joel can do a lot of things, but he can’t sit still.

Months ago, I came across the suggestion to sit quietly and do nothing for 7 minutes. No devices, no music, no distractions. Silence and stillness. Akin to meditation, but less structured. I did it. It was easy. So the next time I did it, I set my phone timer for 10, then 15. I prefer to sit and do nothing outside, and while I haven’t had any earth-shaking revelations, it’s peaceful and I need more of that.

I spent a day unplugged (no phone, no laptop), but during that technology fast, I did other stuff. I read a book, painted. Went for a walk. Analog pleasures. It’s a giant leap from that to doing NOTHING at all.

I don’t know if I could bear three days of stillness (wouldn’t that be amazing, though?), but it’s a goal of mine to do it for a entire day.

It reminds me of those retreats conducted in a spartan room, in complete darkness. What surfaces when all you have is you? I imagine myself in that situation. A small room, essentials only, no light. I’d bang my knees a lot. I do it now, even with perfectly adequate light. So, I’d be bruised and restless. And then what would emerge? Something? Anything?

I’ve nixed the dark experience for several reasons (one is trust…I’d need to know the caretaker personally who delivered my food and was responsible for my safety…and I don’t, so that’s off the table). But stillness? That I could manage.

This morning, I had no pressing deadlines. I considered my options. I always have a running list, but I didn’t want to do any of it. I didn’t want to do anything. I just wanted to stop. So I tried an hour of stillness.

I set the timer on my phone, and sat on the couch, cross-legged. I looked around the room. Noticed my reflection in the TV, my white t shirt and blurry face. Looked at the picture we hung this weekend; thought: that looks really nice there. I closed my eyes for a short time. When I did, sounds became sharper. A matter of focus, maybe. I heard bird chatter and cars and the mechanical buzz of lawn work. It was normal. Nice.

Stressful concerns inevitably rose and I thought: No, no, no. Not this. I do not want to be swept away in a surge of negativity. Then I chose not to resist. To allow whatever came and to let it roll through. Just that—the lack of resistance—made the worries dissipate, and I was (thankfully) back to ordinary observations. There was a constant patter in my head. I didn’t know if it had been 15 minutes or 30. I was tempted to tap my phone and find out, but the urge was mild and it passed.

I felt creaky and uncrossed my legs. Shifted in place. Thought: Bursitis sucks. Still sitting, I put my feet into my slippers on the floor. Did a little tap dance in place with them. (Was that permitted? I decided yes.)

The alarm went off. It had been an hour.

Again, no revelations. But I felt good. Grounded.

Typically, I seek distractions. There’s an endless supply within arm’s reach. It’s an accepted societal belief that being busy is good. “Idle hands” and all that. But I miss feeling an expansiveness of time. There is too much noise. As if the walls are closing in. A little more space in every direction sounds like a welcome relief. Something empty, waiting patiently to be filled.

I am largely a hermit. I love my friends (dearly) but don’t see them very often (most live far away). I like my quiet days.

I think of Emily Dickinson, who rarely left her house, and wrote poetry that was vast. There are adventures to be had out in the world but there are also galaxies inside of us.

I’m poking at the edges. I’ve been reading about friction and how this helps us grow. There are enough external stresses. (My god, more than enough.) The question is: Can I find a gentle way to go deeper? To stretch and grow in a way that makes me more durable? To explore parts of me I don’t fully understand? Or even just to find tiny oases of peace?

I don’t think doing more is the answer. Maybe doing less is.