My need for quiet rises in the folds of mid-morning. My hands stack papers, sorted then filed. The handwork is a kind of mindwork, decluttering the mess of early day. Of running up and downstairs seeking mittens and children. Of tending to hot pans and smears of toothpaste. Of walking home in crisp air, tripping over the tired long lists already playing through my head.
I sit on the floor and sort.
I start many workdays this way. Tell myself that if the room is tidy, my mind will tidy, my thoughts will lay out flat, my heart rate slow, my soul quiet.
But the truth is, it doesn't work.
For all the outer order, my inner landscape stays muddled. Shame lurks in corners assuring me my work is of little worth. I sit at a tidied desk swarmed with fear.
No, the quiet space is further. It’s buried beneath my ribcage, a sharp point in my fleshy centre. I have to get down on the floor, on all fours. Knees bent on hardwood desperate for mopping, elbows jutting down while hands lace up in prayer. My head comes low, all the way down to floorboards, and I must call out.
I call out for the great quiet. I call out to the star of the sea. She is the settler of storms. He is the calm for these waters.
I need quiet, yes. A silence within. An empty ark on a Monday, needing to be filled.
It’s mental health week. Let’s dare to tell our stories.
#mentalhealth #mentalhealthishealth #getloud #anxiety