“In returning and rest is your salvation, in quietness and trust is your strength.”
— words I often admire more than inhabit.
I thought restlessness lived in my thoughts. Today I realized it has made a home in my body. A subtle agitation. Fingers reaching. Legs shifting. A readiness to move on before anything has fully settled.
The urge to update my life has trained me this way. Each moment feels provisional, as if it exists only to be passed through, improved upon, or translated into something shareable. My body stays alert, waiting for the next cue.
I tried to sit with that restlessness instead of correcting it. It was uncomfortable. The body does not like to be questioned; it prefers habit to awareness. I felt the impulse to escape—into motion, into noise, into something that would count as progress.
Nothing resolved. But something slowed. For brief stretches, the agitation loosened its grip, and I sensed how tired my body has been from always being on call.
Perhaps stillness is not the absence of movement, but the relearning of safety. My body, too, needs time to trust that it does not have to be elsewhere.
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