As I prepare to write about our first monthly theme, I find myself entering a pause.
Nature has prompted me to stop before I even begin sketching my ideas. A storm is approaching. Having ignored the thunder in the distance, while finishing my previous task, I suddenly realise it is now directly above the house. I feel the force of each strike and hear the whistling of the wind. The rain starts pouring with abandon from the sky. A spring storm this dramatic and grand is a rare visitor to this place.
I couldn’t help but pause to watch.
Moving Towards Stillness
There is a quiet magic in watching the rain—the gentle patter of drops, the rushing streams carving paths down the street, and the soft, silver mist that has engulfed the trees. Even more than that, I love listening to the rumble of thunder and the soothing, rhythmic song of gushing water hitting the roof, the tree leaves, the street.
I stand in front of the window. The view from the second floor towards the Dandenongs, now completely swallowed by clouds, offers the perfect vantage point.
As I pull my aching body upright, I become aware of how much tension it held during my hour at the computer. I roll my neck, letting go of the knot that always settles there. Unprompted, a long, deep breath comes out on its own and brings a feeling of comfort and calm. I feel completeness that seems to have been there all along.
The Trap of Constant Motion
Pausing is simple yet sometimes unattainable. We love keeping busy. It makes us feel needed, accomplished, even appreciated. For that we are ready to run, achieve, encourage and serve. Yet in the act of doing all this, we forget to take time for ourselves, with ourselves.
Once we become used to the busyness—looking after people, taking on responsibilities, more and more and more—it becomes hard to stop. Sometimes being still feels almost impossible.
I know all too well how difficult it can be. It feels like a death of some sort. It is as if the “I” that expands is going to evaporate… and then what?
“But, I need to do this and that and more and now and immediately….”
I hyperventilate. I give up and get up. “There is too much to do. There is no time.”
I am exhausted running on empty and still accomplishing what I need to do.
And somewhere within me, I know something has to give.
The Need for Stillness Arrives Silently
There comes a time, at least in my experience, when we can no longer allow ourselves to be torn to pieces by millions of duties, roles and never-ending to-do lists. There comes a time, when we just need to pause. To rest for a little while. To be alone, away from the noise, without anyone asking us to do anything.
In that space, we can finally hear our breath and allow it to flow freely and deeply. In that space, time seems to disappear because even one minute of sitting down can seem like a century. One little pause like that can make all the difference to our day.
Stillness Sometimes Begins Spontaneously
The storm has blown over. The heavy rain has eased now, and the birds are happily chirping, telling each other about the storm and where they were during the thunder. Water is still flowing from the gutter, and drops fall merrily from the roof onto the pavement, making a splashing sound.
What if we took time to pause like that —in our own space, on our watch, in our time? Even for a second?
That space could be by the window whilst watching a storm, at the kitchen sink, in the garden, or even just switching off for a little while at our desk. Stillness sometimes begins spontaneously and as we carry our tired bodies and brains, overloaded and bombarded with information from everywhere, maybe we need to be more deliberate about it.
Why aren’t we? Are we afraid of what happens when we are left with our thoughts. Perhaps the simplicity of stillness is that it does not remove our thoughts—it changes our experience of them and how we relate to them.
The simplicity of stillness is that there is nothing we need to achieve. Nothing to change, nothing to become. We simply pause and allow ourselves to be present with what is.
I could have chosen to keep on working and I would have missed out entirely on taking in the rich sounds and images of its unfolding. And with that, I would have not experienced the spaciousness and awe that opened up to me, nor welcomed the new ideas that poured in.
Instead, after the storm, there is a sense of freshness and renewal. Outside the sky has cleared and big round clouds are moving quickly across the sky. The rainbow Lorikeets have come to feed on the gum tree across the road and are particularly chatty. The wind is playing with the branches.
Standing still, silent and calm at the window on this Saturday afternoon, just watching the storm and revelling in this precious moment, I ponder that the simplicity of stillness is perhaps in noticing the moments that are already available to us.
