the lost art of stillness

Rock sitting at sunset, I acknowledge the lost art of stillness.

How, over time, a human can blend into some wild scene unnoticed,
stoic as the stone she is crouched upon,
so that life goes on around her,
undisturbed.

A person no longer a threat.
A presence no longer an intrusion.

How the slowing of a body has become equally as difficult
as the slowing of a mind,
in this fast paced society we’ve built for ourselves.
Where 24 hours in a day is simply not enough,
40 hours no longer pays the bills,
and an empty calendar day equates to idle negligence.

The degree of effort it takes to just sit there,
somewhere,
anywhere,
and just be.

Without a mind wandering,
a screen scrolling,
a message typing,
legs pumping,
motor running.

This subconscious pull,
seemingly gravitational,
towards a distraction,
a destination,
a dependence.

Gutted but goal-oriented,
we move.
Forwards.
Backwards.
Side to side.
But never still.
Never still.

Quietude is an outlandish alien in America.
Debunked and deemed a hoax,
picked apart by the nonbelievers,
the peddle pushers of progress,
perseverance,
effort and exertion,
as if struggle is the only thing left for us to believe in.

Crushed is the shell of a turtle too slow to keep pace in this modern world.
Lost is the wisdom she carries within her gaze.
Ancient eyes from the time of dinosaurs,
tires treading on territory now paved over and potholed,
too fast for her and her kin,
so fast it might kill her kind entirely,
in a century or less,
when turtles, as a species, have survived millennia.

Parties and purpose.
Lists and ladders.
Influencers and idols.
Momentum and marketing.
On brand and on point.

Quickly now.

Or they will pass your ass,
over and across the double lines,
because 10 miles over the speed limit isn’t fast enough.

Get left behind.

Or worse, get flattened beneath,
some jacked up low tread tire racing down a country road,
Formula 1 in a 35.

Still… is how I found myself surrounded by beavers.
Slow… is how I entered the lake,
wading through the thigh deep water,
careful of the steps I couldn’t see but had to feel,
bare feet in the muck,
lucky to have spotted the rock from a distance,
this perfect offshore sit spot,
solitary,
secluded,
at sunset.
Luckier still to not have noticed,
it emerged from the depths right next to a lodge.

As the sun went down,
the beavers returned home.
Floating and feeding as a family.
Gliding through the water,
freely in, out, and about,
their heads bobbing above the surface,
getting lost amongst the lily pads,
only to disappear below,
just to pop up again in another place,
to my left, to my right,
drifting, diving,
fluid, flowing,
streamlined,
synchronous,
as I watched in wonder.

I could have turned forty anywhere I wanted,
the start of a new decade a bigger deal than any of the in-between years.
Maybe not as big as 13, as 16, as 18, as 21,
but a milestone just the same.

I chose to celebrate quietly,
in the company of beavers,
stoic as the stone I sat upon,
at sunset,
watching the wild,
as I disappeared into the background,
unnoticed.

Here, I am not the one to pay attention to.
Centerstage is reserved for the natural world.
It grandstands just by existing.
I am captivated by default.
A gracious guest on borrowed time,
witnessing the beauty of an untamed place,
wishing I could just sit here,
today, tomorrow, forever,
practicing the lost art of stillness.