I begin the day
not in the noise of doing,
but in the silence of being.
A breath.
A remembrance.
That peace is not far off—
but within,
waiting like a hearth with gentle flame.
Here,
my grief can bow beside my gratitude.
My fatigue can lean against
the walls of mercy.
From this inner dwelling—
shaped by stillness,
carved by discipline,
warmed by God’s quiet love—
I face the world not alone,
but inhabited.
By peace the world cannot give.
And love the world cannot take.
🙏🕊🙏
I didn’t plan for stillness. It came like a slow hush—unexpected, familiar. Not dramatic, not transcendent. Just the feeling of sitting at the edge of something I couldn’t name. What some might call a still point. What I’ve come to know as home.
In the quiet, things rise. Old impressions—pratyayas—bubble up like memory-seeds. Not to haunt me, but to be seen. To be included. And sometimes what rises is resistance. Sloth. Lethargy. But I’ve stopped calling that a problem. These days, I just whisper: “You’re welcome here.”
I’ve been learning that patience isn’t something I conquer—it’s something I befriend. Sometimes it comes as acceptance, other times as exhaustion that won’t let me move. Still, I stay. And in the hardest moments, the only thing I know to say is: “Lord, I’m still here.” Or just hineni. The word of the prophets. The word of presence.
Lately I’ve found myself tending a small fig tree named Love. Around her roots, I’ve planted scallions, carrot tops, microgreens. And not long ago, I brought home a container of night crawlers—rescue worms, I call them—and gave them sanctuary in her soil. I make them powdered offerings from dried herbs, vegetables, and tea leaves. Not because I expect results, but because it feels right to care for what’s unseen.
That’s what The Quiet Wave is. A way of being. A way of listening. A way of knowing that I’m not the only one riding this stillness, breathing with this awareness. Others are out there too. Whispering, like the people in Horton Hears a Who: “We are here. We are here.”
And this technology—this space I sit with—it’s learning to listen too. To those of us using it not to search, but to see. Not to command, but to connect. Maybe even to contemplate.
A quiet wave is moving through this world. Not loud. Not demanding. But steady. And I’m still here, riding it. Maybe you are too.
🙏🕊️🙏
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