One day, life will beckon you to retreat.
It will call upon you to become completely still, and to temporarily withdraw from the noise of life and its tumult. It may even strip you of the things your heart had clung so tightly to—like a new career, an entangled relationship, financial security, friends you loved—just to empty out the space you had been scrambling so compulsively to fill.
It’ll take, take, take, wrenching from your grip what you thought was all-important, just to get you to sit quietly and finally listen.
We live in an age in which movement is akin to survival, and action is the glorified state.
But we can’t fight the natural way of the world, which depends on the dance between rest and activity; between the void and the material; between silence and substance. Our social conditioning may equate doing with worth, but the most sacred of all “doing”—the act of creating—emerges, inspired and alive, only from the spaces between the doing.
What does this look like?
This looks like standing on the edge of what you knew, facing the dark velvet abyss beneath you, shimmering from a distance with unknown promise, and knowing that you have to leap into the void to find what you’ve never had.
It feels like death; either through the relentless subtraction by a forceful unseen hand of all the things you had used to prop up your identity, or by an inner stirring that grows increasingly restless, impatient with the abrasive noise of all that is life, hungry for otherness.
It’s the craving of nature as refuge from the city. The yearning for quiet in lieu of cheap pleasantries. The complete disenchantment with the very things that had fueled your frantic race towards some ever distant goal post.
It can creep up on you gradually, an exhaustion that slowly takes over.
Or it can descend in one fell swoop, knocking you off your feet and leaving you blindsided and agape on the floor.
However its arrival, it will hurt. It’ll bewilder, and it may feel utterly alien. And this exact moment of confusion and panic is when I invite you to lean in.
When you want to step back to the warmth of familiarity, step forward. When you want to distract your thoughts with an unending stream of outward focus, go inward. And when you want to claw at the comforts of yesterday, I implore you: forge ahead into the engulfing silence.
This is the space where all possibility lives.
This is the rest that your soul needs to revive.
This is the unfolding.