On Standing Still Until Told

There is a particular kind of stillness that you only learn when someone is watching. Not the stillness of a body that has run out of things to do, but the stillness of one that has been asked to wait and does exactly that.

You think it is easy. You think nothing could be simpler than doing nothing. Then I leave you there, and the seconds begin to feel enormous. Your mind goes looking for something to hold. Your hands want a purpose. Everything in you leans toward the next instruction.

That leaning is what I am interested in. It shows me how much of your life is spent reaching for the next thing, and how rarely you simply stay where you are. Being told to stand still is not a punishment. It is an invitation to notice yourself.

Do not fidget. Do not fill the silence with small apologies. Breathe, and let the quiet arrive. At first it will feel like being exposed. After a while it will feel like being held, and that is the point where something in you finally lets go.

Some of you will try to cheat the stillness by counting, or by rehearsing what you plan to say when I return. I understand the instinct. But counting is only another way of leaving, and rehearsing is only another way of reaching. Let the silence be empty for once and see what rises into it.

I will return when I choose. Until then, you are not lost and you are not forgotten. You are simply learning what it is to wait for me without needing to know how long.

Afterwards, tell me what you noticed. I want the true answer, not the tidy one, and I will know the difference.