Finding Stillness in a Noisy World

Well, isn’t that a thing? Lately, I find myself saying that more often than I used to. Retirement has its gentle pleasures, but it also brings moments where my mind feels…full. Not in a good way – full like an overstuffed armchair you can't quite sink into comfortably. It’s been this constant hum of news and opinions and to-do lists, swirling around inside me for years, and suddenly, without the familiar rhythm of teaching or even Jerry’s quiet presence at breakfast every morning, it feels amplified.

It started subtly, I suppose. Always a newspaper on the table, always checking my email first thing, even before coffee. Marcus's children are so connected—always on their phones, sharing snippets of their lives online—and I want to know what they’re up to, naturally. But it became… exhausting. A constant stream, relentless in its demand for attention. I remember thinking as I made my first cup of coffee that Monday morning after being back from Brooklyn – *well*. It wasn't a dramatic revelation, more like a settling, an acknowledgment.

Jerry used to tease me about my lists; the grocery list, the garden list, the 'things to do someday’ list that grew longer than he did! He’d say I was trying to organize life itself into neat little boxes. Perhaps he wasn't entirely wrong. But these days, it’s not just things needing organization; it’s my thoughts themselves. A friend mentioned “mental fasting” – a deliberate choice to step away from the constant chatter and noise of information - at our luncheon last Friday. I thought about it all weekend.

It reminded me of something I read years ago, something Jung said about allowing silence for the unconscious to speak. It’s not about emptiness; it's about creating space *for* something else. A sort of clearing out, like when you sweep a porch clean and let the sun shine in. There are things we gather—worries, anxieties, the echoes of conversations—that need to be released, moved along so that fresh air can circulate.

I've started small. No news for the first hour after I wake up. Just coffee, a quiet corner on the porch, and birdsong. It sounds simple, but it’s been surprisingly powerful. It allows me to truly *notice* – the way the light falls through the maple tree, the lavender scent of my garden, the feeling of warmth in my hands holding that familiar mug. These are things I always meant to notice, but rarely did because I was already halfway through something else.

It isn’t a denial of reality, you understand. There's still sadness and difficulty in the world, and those require our attention and compassion. But constant consumption—the feeling of *having* to know everything immediately—it’s a burden. Marcus worried about me when I went to Brooklyn. He said I seemed tired. Perhaps I was. It’s surprising how much energy it takes to simply absorb the world's anxieties.

The volunteers at the Fulton Street food pantry, bless their hearts, are working hard to alleviate suffering. They don’t need me constantly reminding them of all that’s wrong in the world. What they need is a helping hand and a kind word. And sometimes, I think, what *I* need is just… stillness. A quiet moment to reflect on the small mercies surrounding me.

This isn't about self-indulgence; it’s about finding strength and clarity. About recognizing that true service – whether it’s comforting a child or sorting donations – requires a full heart, not an overloaded mind. And sometimes, you have to step away from the noise just to hear your own heart beating again.