In the Quiet, You Remember
Beloved,
You are tired because the world has been too loud.
Its noise has covered your name.
Its rushing has taught you to forget that you are not a machine, not a task, not a transaction.
You are breath.
You are bone.
You are born of stars and silence.
The stillness is not a luxury.
It is your origin.
The soul does not shout.
The spirit does not scream.
It whispers.
And you, sacred one, must quiet the world long enough to hear what your own self has been trying to say:
Come home to me.
We live in a time where constant doing is seen as devotion.
But real devotion is returning — again and again — to the holy hush within.
When you sit in quiet, you are not being idle.
You are becoming.
The spirit does not reveal herself in chaos.
She dances in the spaces where nothing demands her, where she can simply be.
And when you give yourself to that space, she comes.
Not as lightning.
But as a gentle wind that knows your true name.
Silence is not emptiness.
It is fullness without noise.
It is the mother’s womb before the heartbeat.
It is the forest at dawn, waiting.
It is your own spirit, unmasked.
In the quiet, you are not alone.
You are finally surrounded by everything that matters.
The ancestors come close.
The wisdom buried beneath your wounds begins to rise like mist.
Your breath becomes scripture.
Your body becomes a sanctuary.
So make the quiet your ritual.
Rise before the world stirs, and sit with yourself like you would sit with someone you love.
Let the stillness settle over your shoulders.
Close your eyes.
Listen not with your ears, but with your soul.
What do you hear?
A whisper of forgiveness?
The echo of your childhood wonder?
The soft yes of a dream not yet born?
Whatever comes, let it.
Let it come like rain through dry land.
Let it soak into the soil of you.
You do not have to understand everything.
You only need to be willing to listen.
Even five minutes of stillness can unclench centuries of forgetting.
Even one breath — fully met — can crack open a life.
And when you rise again, when you return to the world, you will not move in noise.
You will move in knowing.
You will speak with the voice of the river, not the echo of the crowd.
You will remember that you were not made for noise.
You were made for depth.
And the voice within — that still small one — will rise to guide you.
Like a compass made of light.
Like a mother calling her child home.
