If you’re in my immediate circle, you know that these past few weeks I’ve been reading a lot, meditating a lot, practicing being still a lot. Note that I said practicing, because it still does not come naturally to me. At all.
I was raised in a household and within a culture where movement was expected. My ancestors didn’t endure slavery for my parents to graduate from college and raise someone who lazes about. My craving for stillness has somewhat always translated as laziness or willful separation. My diving into books and films has always translated as creating distance.
Being raised by and around strong women and an accomplished, fast-moving father meant that downtime was some kind of vague thing that people in a far-off land participated in, that saved them from spiraling into insanity and feeling worked up and run down. When one of my times praying to God for peace turned into a loud command to meditate, I got right to work.
Meditation isn’t always oom, namaste, like people online will have you think it is. Meditation is being alone with your thoughts, God, nature, the wind, the rain, breathing, and just being. Slowing down forces you to acknowledge the areas of your life which desperately need your attention. Being still demands that you repair them, and by repairing, I mean dismantling them entirely, making room for positive changes.
Dismantling for me meant forcing myself to be still without allowing my mind to race as it typically has. It demanded that I finally take that step and pursue a therapist. I am excited to go to my consultation this weekend, and, of course, will keep you all in the loop. Stillness eased my anxiety, and lifted the thick blanket of depression I was under.
Try being still.
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