the art of sitting still

January 3, 2020

The Art of Sitting Still

Once a week while a candle is lit practice sitting still.

You don’t have to scratch your nose.

That text can go unread for a few minutes.

You won’t forget to add that reminder to your calendar.

The group chat won’t miss your timely quip.

The pile of clothes that have been sitting on the floor of your closet aren’t getting exponentially more wrinkled while it burns.

Your shallow breath can finally allow itself to be caught and drug deep down into your diaphragm.

If you never see that instagram post in your feed, it won’t matter, it wasn’t for you.

That emotion you have been rushing around and away from, sit next to it and see what it does.

You won’t die without a sip of water, a bottle of which you carry everywhere yet haven’t had all day.

You don’t have to pee. Believe me.

Of course nicotine or a sip of alcohol would be nice, but won’t it be nicer if you wait a while? Maybe even until after dinner. Maybe until next month.

You start to notice waves of ambient sound in your space, or the humming absence of sound.

The flickering light hits the corner of a painting and you notice a shade or angle you hadn’t before.

When was the last time you took a breath that deep?

Now, in this small vacuum, when your stomach gurgles you can ask it ‘what do you want’ as in, what do you really want and not just what is fast, what is in the fridge, what is convenient, what is everyone else doing tonight.

Now, in this small vacuum, ask yourself, what do I want, what do I really want, what do I want from this hour, this evening, this week, this month, this life? Not just what is convenient or happens to be rushing by and catches my eye.

Feel your seat bones. Feel your body, feel into where it’s tight. Feel what it feels like to move it around and remember when you heard that humans are the only mammal that doesn’t stretch every day and how silly that is.

The stillness gets easier, more comfortable.

Something soft inside of you starts to emerge. A voice you had covered over with the loud din of your life. A sweet self whose desires throw off your orderly plans. Maybe a body asking you to stay in and rest, or asking you to please take it out to dance.