Just saying, hearing or reading the word stillness quiets me. I'd say I strive for stillness, but that's a contradiction. Stillness isn't something you go after, but something that descends on you when you stop striving or going after. To be still, do nothing. To be still, be present.

If I had to pick one favorite core word (which I don't), I'd pick stillness.

Stillness means gently slowing the mind and softening the heart. I experience stillness at those moments when I look around and think, "This…just this…is enough." I may be alone or with people; I may be at home with a cat on my lap, or, as now, in a new place (a retreat center) in a quiet corner with my journal and a pen, but the esssential characteristic is being satisfied and at peace.

I choose stillness over peace as my core word because stillness includes environmental elements–I can be at peace anywhere (even where it's crowded and noisy), but stillness comes in particular settings with limited stimuli–in front of a fire, on a deserted mountain pass, sitting in early morning silence with a fresh cup of coffee.

My spirit is nurtured by stillness, by solitude. It's like bread dough–give it someplace quiet and warm and it doubles in size. Stomp around the kitchen, slam cupboards, and it collapses.

Stillness allows for clarity. Only when the surface of the pond is smooth can you see what lies beneath. Stillness makes the inner look possible.

And had you heard that God speaks with "a still, small voice"? So much easier to hear in stillness.

Stillness provides a pivot point around which the world revolves. Remember the metal merry-go-round in the playgrounds of our childhood? Only in the very center could you stand without being spun outward and off.

I want and welcome stillness.

Text and image © 2010 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.