photo by Greg Rosenke

  
 
 
There is nothing to save, now all is lost,
 but a tiny core of stillness in the heart
 like the eye of a violet.
 ― D.H. Lawrence       

                      

Google stillness, and you will find a multitude of sites dedicated to the practice and benefits of stillness. Stillness is cool now. It’s the thing to do–or more aptly, to be–the stuff in which yoga masters, gurus, meditators, counselors, and wellness entrepreneurs find their bread and butter, their strong foundation, their core (choose your favorite metaphor).

Most people define stillness by negation. It’s not movement, it’s not doing something, it’s not noisy. But ask others, and they’ll tell you that stillness is our most intense mode of action (Leonard Bernstein), the still small voice of God (Annie Dillard), the most beautiful of all trees in the garden (Thomas Merton), the dancing (T. S. Eliot), the eye of the violet (D. H. Lawrence), the most profound activity (Rainer Maria Rilke). Where some see what stillness is not, others see what it is and what it can be.

There’s something romantic and spiritual about stillness. It conjures up images of Henry David Thoreau tucked away in his cabin at Walden Pond, communing with nature–and only occasionally with people. Or William Wordsworth tramping through the Lake District of England, lonely as a cloud. Or St. Therese of Lisoux, the little flower, who lived her short life as a cloistered Carmelite nun. It seems almost other-worldly, a practice reserved for special people, perhaps reserved for those upon whose unique genetic code has been written all the secrets of stillness.

It goes without saying that for most of us regular folk, stillness seems exotic, exceptional, and exclusive. Even as we sit at our desks or kitchen tables, as we wait in line or in the car, our thumbs and eyes move rapidly as we text, scroll, and search. And our brains? It often seems that they can’t–or won’t–land. They’re swallows without roosts, stringless kites being whipped about in the March wind. And so it’s no wonder that stillness has become a business. Too often, we’ll buy what we can’t do for ourselves (or what we won’t do for ourselves). We’ll order the stillness how-to books from Amazon. We’ll attend weekend seminars. We’ll listen to podcasts and watch YouTube videos. We’ll download apps. Because we can’t turn off the noise in our heads, we turn to those who’ve made stillness look possible.

In The Angle of Repose, Amercian novelist Wallace Stegner writes:

[The modern age] knows nothing about isolation and nothing about silence. In our quietest and loneliest hour the automatic ice-maker in the refrigerator will cluck and drop an ice cube, the automatic dishwasher will sigh through its changes, a plane will drone over, the nearest freeway will vibrate the air. Red and white lights will pass in the sky, lights will shine along highways and glance off windows. There is always a radio that can be turned to some all-night station, or a television set to turn artificial moonlight into the flickering images of the late show. We can put on a turntable whatever consolation we most respond to, Mozart or Copland or the Grateful Dead.

Here’s the rub: our age knows nothing about isolation and nothing about silence. If to be still means that we must be isolated and silent–at least for a time–then we’re up the proverbial creek without a paddle. Many of us work actively to never be alone and to fill any silence we encounter. And we have such easy access to information and entertainment right at our fingertips. We can stream it all 24/7. So, to intentionally isolate ourselves from others and to turn off all of our devices seems so counterintuitive. And downright tough.

Once again, I’ve been blessed with the opportunity to attend an artist’s residency for several weeks. With the exception of an introductory meeting with the other two resident artists, I’m alone with my books and computer. And because there have been near gale-force winds the past couple of days, I’ve been relatively still (as in physically inactive because it’s too challenging even to walk). The only sound in my apartment is the furnace going on and off, as well as the persistent wind in the trees. I’d like to say that this isolated, quiet environment has made it much easier to still my thoughts and my fingers that continually search for something to hold or to do. But that would be a real stretch.

Still (pardon the obvious and horrible pun!), there have been moments. In his Letters on Life, German poet Rainer Maria Rilke writes:

I have often wondered whether especially those days when we are forced to remain idle are not precisely the days spend in the most profound activity. Whether our actions themselves, even if they do not take place until later, are nothing more than the last reverberations of a vast movement that occurs within us during idle days.

In any case, it is very important to be idle with confidence, with devotion, possibly even with joy. The days when even our hands do not stir are so exceptionally quiet that it is hardly possible to raise them without hearing a whole lot.

I’ve realized that my moments of authentic stillness have come from a confidence in, a devotion to, and a joy in being idle. Away from my real life, I find it easier to be rather than to do. After all, that’s the point of a residency like this. It’s my job to be still, to set myself apart from all that might interfere with creating. Like Rilke, I have found that the most profound activity has come in these moments of stillness. And I don’t take these moments for granted.

Author, activist, and spiritual leader Marianne Williamson cautions us to slow down, to learn how to go deep. She writes:

The world we want for ourselves and our children will not emerge from electronic speed but rather from a spiritual stillness that takes root in our souls. Then, and only then, will we create a world that reflects the heart instead of shattering it.

I don’t believe that many of us would argue with Williamson’s claim that the world we want won’t emerge from electronic speed. Some of us will agree that this world must come from a spiritual stillness that takes root in our souls. And most of us hope for a world that reflects the heart instead of shattering it. But how do we cultivate a spiritual stillness in our souls? How do we carve out the solitude in which this stillness can take root? And how do we teach our children?

Good questions, all. Perhaps we can start with the recognition that stillness gives more than it takes, that it’s profoundly active, and that it matters deeply. I’m sure that I’ll leave this residency with a greater appreciation of and deeper devotion to stillness. But I realize that this isn’t enough. It’s the continued commitment to the practice that will truly make the difference between paying lip service to stillness and living it. I hope to live it.