Being still and silent and broken is its own kind of religion.
I came across this line from a post last year and I realised it still rings so true, for where I am right now.
Being silent, still, slow has become a way of life. Sometimes things are so still I feel like I’m moving in slow motion.
I don’t know if it’s actually as apparent as I feel like it is — but I’m gradually losing the inclination to go into detailed descriptions of the minutiae of every little change that I am experiencing. I can barely get myself to cursorily state it in a lazy, sometimes incoherent fashion. Glossing over the surface and skimming the surface feels like I’m missing the totality entirely. But it is what it is. I am losing the ability to put things down in words, to commit to anything. In writing.
Partly because things are changing so rapidly, and I am opening myself up to it more and more, writing anything down feels like I’m pickling it, grabbing it and pinning it down to some form of certainty. When in real life, my pursuit has been to keep my grip on everything very loose. To let go as best as I can, to watch things as they leave, transform, sometimes return to take a new form.
I have a newfound respect, love even, for this truly slow, almost meditative pace. I’ve learned to savour time. To surrender. To watch more. To feel keenly. To be more interested in the world.
One year ago: Not invited, but I’m glad I made it