A Reflection on Finding Peace in Quiet Moments

I have never been one for sitting still—never the sort to let the world slow as I linger in a moment of silence. Restless by inclination, I am a piddler by nature, forever fluttering from task to task, my thoughts ricocheting like sunlight off water. My hands reach for the next thing before the last is done; my mind, ever-occupied, spins with a thousand fragments of intention. The act of being still, truly still, was foreign to me—until now.

Yet as life meanders, carving new paths with its slow persistence, I find myself drawn to stillness as if to a new continent. The world outside has grown heavier, the air thick with uncertainty and news that weighs upon the heart. I am weary—bone-deep, soul-deep, the kind of tired that seeps quietly in and settles with the dusk. Against this heaviness, stillness emerges not as a surrender, but as a coping mechanism, a gentle rebellion against the relentless march of time and change.

Now, I find myself content in the porch rocker, eyes tracing the way the afternoon light settles on the grass, and filters through the moss draped limbs on my acres. Sometimes, I simply admire the view from my window, watching the redbirds come to the feeder on my porch, letting it all just lull me into serenity. Other times, I ride through the country, letting my mind drift, unanchored, through fields and shadowed woods that line the country roads that call to me. The landscape passes by in a blur, and in those moments, I feel my thoughts grow lighter, my cares falling away like leaves from a shaken branch.

There is a soft clarity in these tranquil pauses—a hush that settles over the din of daily worry. I hear old advice echoing in the quiet, familiar voices offering comfort from memories that linger like old perfume. I recall gentle conversations with those I miss most, their words a blessing to my soul, their haunting laughter, a light breeze that whispers to my heart. In solitude, I find kinship with those who have gone on before, their wisdom threading through my silence.

No one comes to break this spell, to shatter the delicate hush or interrupt the frolic of my wandering mind. I am alone, yet not lonely—there is a freedom here, in the absence of interruption, in the spaciousness of my own company. My mind is free to tumble and play, to revisit old joys and sorrows, to imagine new beginnings. The silence is fertile ground for hope to root and blossom.

Perhaps this new inclination toward stillness is not merely an adaptation to the world’s tumult, but a gentle awakening—an invitation to attend to the subtler rhythms within. The world rushes on outside, but here, in these rare moments of calm, I am reminded that peace is not always found in movement or accomplishment, but sometimes in the simple act of sitting, seeing, and letting go. Being good to yourself, self-care, is so important. I have discovered that there is a grace in being still, in allowing oneself to rest—if only for a moment—in the sanctuary of quiet. Here, I am both anchored and adrift, weary and weightless, and the world seems, for a time, gentle again. While I treasure the stillness, the grace, and the mercy I find in its shadow, I know that life goes on… tomorrow is another day and one that I must go past the quiet to meet the world again. But I go knowing that I am never truly alone, God carries me and that, along with the memories I have give me the strength to dare to live again in the noise and chaos that awaits outside my gates. I have a purpose, we all do even if we do not understand it, see it, or feel it.