There is a kind of stillness that isn’t about stopping. It’s more like letting the world move around you without rushing to match its pace.
The kettle whistles, a page turns, someone passes outside — and all of it becomes part of the same, unbroken breath.
Stillness isn’t silence, either. It’s the sound of things being what they are. You can hear it in the scratch of a pencil or the steady rhythm of your own pulse. In that moment, the smallest task — folding a letter, washing a brush, setting a cup down — becomes its own kind of prayer.
We often chase calm like it’s a destination. But perhaps it’s something gentler — a companion walking beside you, waiting patiently whenever you remember to slow your step.
— Emily Foster
The quiet doesn’t ask to be found. It waits for us to listen.