Finding Stillness in the Quiet

Sometimes, the quietest moments are the loudest. That's what I've found, particularly now that I’ve had the space to truly listen. For thirty-four years, the mornings were a precise choreography – alarm clock, breakfast, the drive to school, the familiar buzz of the faculty room. There was little time for stillness, and even less inclination. It wasn’t that I was actively avoiding anything; it was simply that the days were full, relentlessly so. But when Bernard started his final stretch at the firm and I was left to my own devices, that full-ness began to dissipate, leaving behind… what?

Well, it turned out to be a great deal of feeling. Feelings I’d tucked away, compartmentalized, or simply ignored. The sudden silence wasn’t pleasant at first. It was unsettling. It was almost… frightening. I found myself reaching for distractions – gardening, reading, even more reading – anything to fill the space and quell the rising tide of awareness. But the weeds, both in the flowerbeds and in my own mind, kept coming back.

I remember Phyllis, my dearest friend, saying, "It's like all those things you've been pushing down are suddenly demanding attention." She's always been remarkably perceptive, Phyllis. I’d scoffed, of course. I was a teacher! A woman of reason and composure! But she was right. Those uncomfortable feelings weren’t going anywhere. They were simply waiting for me to stop running.

What makes this so difficult, I think, is that we're taught to believe discomfort is *bad*. To be avoided at all costs. Think of how we respond to a child's tantrum – often, it's with the intention of stopping it, silencing it. And we learn to do the same to ourselves. A thought that makes us cringe? We shove it away. A feeling of sadness? We distract ourselves until it fades. But what if, instead, we simply… noticed it?

This isn't about wallowing. It's not about indulging in negativity. It’s about observing the experience without judgment. There's a wonderful analogy I learned recently - the “two arrows.” Imagine someone shoots an arrow at you. The first arrow, the one that initially strikes you, is unpleasant, certainly. But the second arrow, the one you shoot *at yourself* – the anger, the self-criticism, the resistance – that's the one that truly causes the pain. Mindfulness is about letting go of the second arrow.

It's been helpful for me to think about the garden, actually. When I first started planting the cosmos this year, I was horrified to discover aphids. They were everywhere! My first instinct was to reach for the insecticide. But I paused. I remembered something a wise old gardener told me once: "Don't fight what is. Work with it." So, I introduced ladybugs, natural predators of the aphids. It took time, and some of the cosmos were lost, but eventually, the balance restored itself.

The same principle applies to our emotions. When a difficult feeling arises – a pang of regret, a flash of anxiety – it's not the feeling itself that’s the problem. It’s the resistance to it, the struggle against it. Simply acknowledging, "Oh, there's sadness," or "Ah, that’s worry," can defuse the intensity. It's not about erasing the feeling; it's about creating space around it, allowing it to exist without getting swept away by it.

That autumn equinox gathering with Phyllis… that was the beginning, really. Just two old friends, sitting on the patio, watching the sunset. No agenda, no expectations, just quiet companionship. And in that quiet, I began to understand that true resilience isn't about avoiding pain; it's about learning to be present with it, to witness it with compassion, and to let it pass. It’s a practice, like tending a garden. There will be weeds, there will be pests, but there will also be blooms. And in the tending, there is a quiet kind of joy.