The Fine Art of Standing Still

I've been thinking lately that maybe this might just be it. Maybe I am exactly where I am meant to be. Everything is in its place. And if this really is it, I’m perfectly okay with that. It doesn’t mean it won’t change later. In fact, the acceptance that comes with such awareness probably makes change all the more possible. Often good things happen when you are least expecting them. Someone new comes into your life and makes it a whole lot better. You discover a new author on a bookshop shelf and end up reading everything they have ever written, or an unexpected opportunity opens itself up.

Indeed standing still requires a lot of bravery to do so. To step off the merry-go-round that modern life has become is never easy. Here I am settling into the rhythm of being single again. Watching out for and appreciating the little things that bring innocent joy. A short walk, a five-minute nap in the middle of the day, a nice cup of tea, or a good film on TV, or standing on Hill 16 in the pouring rain watching the death of an empire unfolding, so that it can rise up again. Every day there is always tomorrow to look forward to. Right now, I’m choosing hope and possibility over fear and uncertainty. I’m learning to dive below and swim again in the murky depths, casting my net around the quiet corners of my mind to see what I might find there.

Of course, there are things I still want to achieve, but it feels easier now. It would be nice not to be coming home to an empty house, to be able to hear the news of someone else’s day unfolding over dinner. The attic conversion will have to wait until fate turns the other way. Routine still remains the silent killer choking of a more creative way. But still, there’s magic to be found in the silence that slips below. Deep within, the subconscious rattles like a rusty old gate to reveal the hidden reservoir whatever it is that keeps me going. The ability of a quiet mind moves the pieces around the board so that I can stay afloat. It’s a part of the wonder, these things we do to survive the slings and arrows of misfortune that come our way. Of course, some of them are self-inflicted, but regret is made for yesterday. I’ve made it this far, so I know I’ll be okay.

Writing helps more than anything. It keeps me grounded. It’s how the light gets in. It keeps me open to possibility, to the gentle nature of my existence that I know will be taken advantage of from time to time by those who don’t know any better, but the gains are more important than what gets lost in a tired mind. It comes with the territory. I know that now. Writing puts a form on my thoughts and gives them a voice. It’s here that the confusion finds a way out so that it can make some sense of itself. When I sit down to write I come to a standstill. It’s here I find the peace that often escapes me elsewhere. A candle burning to measure my progress, the smoky smell rising from an incense stick’s soft caress wrapping itself around the words as they start to flow. It is here that I tap into my creative self. The real me. Outside in the false world, I have to be someone else to survive, to prosper in a world created by others. This world that makes no sense to me.

But I’m slowly getting better at exposing those parts of myself that I’ve had to keep hidden away to others. The side that I know some people are not ready for. It unsettles them, and it always will, but I’m past saying sorry for being me. Maybe even what I’m writing now is too much, but I really don’t give a fuck, anymore. Take it or leave it. Life’s too short to be half the person you are meant to be. I’ve had to hide away long enough, born of an education system that makes intelligent people feel like they’re stupid. That has to change. But I digress, see how easy it is to slip off track into the mainstream. It’s a constant battle to bring my thought back to the stillness and begin again.

There’s a certain beauty that comes with the elegance of biting into a piece of toast covered in melted butter and homemade marmalade. Sitting there in the early morning readying myself for what lies ahead. Every day is different from what’s sitting in my head. I’ve learned to live with the possibility of now. My thoughts wander out the door ahead of me when I open it. I catch them and hold the door handle tight before they get away. That way I don’t end up having to chase them. They too have learned to sit still. I’ve even thought about getting a dog to keep me company, but life’s busy enough, and the worry of leaving them alone when I’m out is something I’m already trying to forget. Unlearning the habits of a lifetime will take a while. Standing on the edge of those moments when the stillness catches before it floats aimlessly above and dissipates. Sometimes it’s good to have nowhere to go.

I stretch out on the sofa before I get up to turn the reading light on, something I always forget. and make one last cup of tea before I finally settle. I turn the page of The Weight of Love and sink into possibility. The author sets the agenda as I surrender to her story and when I’ve read enough and my eyes grow heavy I know I’ve learned to let go. As I slip in and out of consciousness my eyes catch on the clock, except time doesn’t exist anymore in this treasured place. It’s only when I wake up fully that I realize that I’ve forgotten everything I learned there. So I pick the book back up and begin again, trying to remember where I was before, the last few pages begging me to read them over and over again until they stick and leave the past behind.

At the weekend the house fills with the noise and wonder of Samuel. A whirlwind of love, possibility, and endless creativity. I hold his spirit close. Disney’s Top Ten. Harry Potter’s friends. Hardbacks or paperbacks. List of possibilities vying for our attention. You Tubers listing wellread books, we sit back and discuss over mash and gravy and gallons of strawberry milk. More often than not there’s magic in the air. We walk to Finnstown House to see the horses and talk about things that matter to him. Nothing is left unsaid. We step into the sun. We run before we learn to walk. We have lots of fun. And when I return on a Sunday night after dropping Samuel back down to Carlow the house seems emptier and more silent than ever, so we count the days until it’s Friday again. Four days in between, three, two, until it’s one. The week goes quicker that way.

Most of all I curse the monotony of routine that holds us in its iron grip. God knows I’ve tried to break its hold. That’s why I stand still, hoping that it will pass me by. That it will leave me alone to myself so that I can enjoy the mystery that belongs with chaos. I felt it in London and New York. I feel it when I turn my ear towards myself and the loneliness that comes with feeling out of place with your surroundings. The knowledge that it can be better if only we said stop. When I’m still I find comfort in the common sense of others like the musicians, poets, writers, artists, and the rebels that walk the other way and refuse to bow their heads to the oncoming traffic. They are my heroes. My way out when things get too noisy. I listen in silence and forget five minutes ago.

It is in places like this I feel the ocean washing over me. It is in the fine art of standing still that I find my safety net.