An Unexpected Stillness

Stillness. One of the doors into the temple.

Mary Oliver

Eight years ago I visited Coniston Water - in the English Lake District. I'd spent the day exploring the area with my aunt and a couple from Northumbria, who I'd met here in Cape Town and had travelled across to meet us in the Lake District to show us around. We'd done some walking in the fells, and enjoyed a picnic at Blea Tarn. At the end of the day, we stopped at Coniston Water and slipped into companionable solitudes, each sitting or meandering quietly along the water's edge.

The sun was settling; it was a windstill evening, and the surrounding hills, trees and rocks were reflected in the polished surface of the lake. After a short time, a lone swan drifted past, also perfectly reflected in the soft light that played across the water. (The photograph above is one I took that day.)

As I write, I try to find words for that evening by the lake. Words like golden and under a spell come to mind, all of which sound clichéd and trite. We had wandered into a shared stillness, and found ourselves - in Oliver's words - in the temple. There was only one perfect moment, yielding itself, like breath, to the next.

En route back to our cottage, our English friends marveled at the experience, explained that such stillness is rare. Most days the wind blows, they said, or it rains. We had been gifted something special, something that happens maybe a few days a year. Stopping by the lake had been a spontaneous decision, one we could easily have missed doing, but that became one of my favourite moments of the trip.

This last couple of weeks have been full ones. Building in time for stillness and grounding has been a challenge, and over the past few days I've not been able to create space even for the small disciplines I rely on for daily quiet. (Amongst other things, we've had work going on here at our home, and there has been a lot of noise and interruption.) In spite of this, "the doors into the temple" have opened for me at unexpected times and in unlooked-for places. I have been nurtured by these gifts. I'm also freshly aware that it is the disciplined cultivation of stillness that carries me in those seasons when my daily habits and practices are unavoidably disturbed.

Where have the doors opened for you, and how do you cultivate the quiet needed to navigate life's noise? If you'd like to read the whole of Oliver's beautiful poem Today - from which the quote above comes - take a look at my post over at Cloudlight.