Writing as Listening, as Stillness Practice
40 Days of Stillness 2:40:2022
Slow, slow. I have been downshifting through end of semester chaos for weeks, a necessity on what felt like a too-steep hill I kept stalling out on. Under ordinary circumstances, I muscle through. When ascending a hill, or stuck in a snowy ditch - I grew up in the northeast, I’ve been in a few - I get out and lean my whole body and start pushing. Until I can't anymore - I've done that a few times too. This time was different in that the car would not have been so heavy, the ditch not so deep if I hadn't so frequently spun out on old unconscious fears, if the academic environment weren't so uniquely suited to make me question my existence, to divorce me from my body and my skill and my deep knowing. Academia wasn't built for human bodies, it was built upon them.
I'm still trying to get over the lip of the ditch, really, if only so I can park for a good while without worry about what to do when I'm ready to move again. Slowing down and getting a lot of help pushing the car has helped me conserve fuel, so all the effort feels just a little more possible. And this moment of possibility is where my body is so patterned to gather itself back up, harness any amount of energy while it's here, chug up over the edge and keep on going. I know that strategy - it’s so familiar and I developed it for good reason. It's a handy tool to have around in emergencies. And if I do that now, I do so at risk to myself, to my body. There's still snow under the tires. It’s slippery, and evening comes early. I must move with care if I must move at all.
Stillness this morning looked like noticing the urge to pick up my phone in bed and delaying the action at least 3 times before giving in and forgiving myself. And then, tapping out these words. Writing, because writing about the body, with my body, about my experience, is one of the ways I reconnect to the quiet, trustworthy place inside myself. It's not a strict stillness, not the absence of stimulus, it is a listening practice. And this is maybe as much what I mean by stillness as anything else.
Some prompts, if you’d like to practice along with me:
Is there a ditch you’ve been stuck in lately? Can you name it gently without spinning your wheels?
What’s the well-worn pattern? Is it useful right now? Respectful of your body, your energy, your brief human life? If not, what might it be like to consider doing the opposite? What’s one small, possible step?
What support is available - inside yourself? In your relationships? In the natural world, or or or? What might make it possible to rest, to slow, to come to a more natural human pace?
Where is there goodness? Enjoyment? Sweetness? Could you tolerate even a little bit more? What might that look like?