What They Mean When They Talk About Stillness

They tell me that the answer to uncertain times is found in stillness. That all I am and all I need is in there, humming. A motor run on calm. And so I sit. And wait. I breathe and chant and wait and sit. And wait. And wait.

Where are the answers?

It’s been months of stillness in Vancouver. On March 14, I led a workshop before joining a few friends for a drink in a sparse, still-open bar. Toilet paper supplies were just dwindling. Only a handful of businesses voluntarily shut down. Notices taped onto closed front doors shone bright white in the spring sunlight. Until April 1st, they said. See you in two weeks.

The notices are fading now, sunbleached and brittle. Plants sit parched and begging behind shuttered windowpanes and every time I walk by them, I want to put my fist through the window out of rage frustration boredom and grab them by their stems and take them home and feed them and nurse them and love them back to life. I want to snip their brown stalks and soak their dusty soil and wait and hope and wonder if they will sprout again, if they will renew. I want to wonder if I have done enough to save them.

I want anticipation. I want that moment when a baby green bud appears on a thirsty twig. I want to look forward to it, to covet it, to feel the burst of joy followed by the…