Behind the Puddle

I am beginning to realize there is a difference between being still and resting. I can rest while watching television, scrolling through my phone, reading something, talking to someone, or working from my chair. My body may not be moving much, but my mind certainly is. Stillness is different. Stillness is when there isn’t anything competing for my attention.

Apparently, I am not always very good at that. Give me five quiet minutes, and my brain can produce an impressive list. There are things I need to do, things I forgot to do, and things I should probably worry about. There are also conversations from fifteen years ago that clearly require immediate reconsideration.

Then I remember something I need to order or someone I should text. A completely unrelated question suddenly feels important enough to Google. Our minds are remarkably creative when asked to be quiet.

Maybe that’s why stillness can initially feel uncomfortable. When the noise outside gets quieter, sometimes the noise inside gets louder. Behind the puddle, November is becoming still. The leaves that spent summer constantly moving are mostly gone. There are fewer birds darting between branches, fewer insects, and less activity on the water.

The landscape seems open in a way it wasn’t a few months ago. At first glance, there is less to see. But the longer I sit here, the more I realize that isn’t true. I can see farther. Branches that were hidden are visible.

I notice where birds actually land. I see the shape of trees instead of only their leaves. The water catches my attention differently. Things haven’t disappeared so much as stopped competing with one another.

Maybe stillness does that for us too. It doesn’t necessarily create something new. Sometimes it reveals what was already there. It might uncover a feeling we’ve been avoiding, a decision we already know we need to make, or a sadness that hasn’t had room to arrive.

It might reveal an idea, a memory, relief, or exhaustion. Or maybe nothing profound at all. That’s allowed too. I think we sometimes approach stillness as though it should produce wisdom. We expect ourselves to sit quietly, reflect, meditate, find clarity, and become enlightened, preferably before lunch.

But perhaps stillness doesn’t owe us anything. Maybe we can simply stop without turning stopping into another assignment. That’s something sitting behind the puddle has been teaching me. I don’t always have to identify the bird, photograph the squirrel, write the story, check the weather, or notice something meaningful.

Sometimes I can sit in my chair and let the puddle be a puddle. I can let myself be a person sitting beside it. Nothing more. There is a kind of richness in that.

It isn’t excitement or accomplishment. It is space. Space for my thoughts to wander and eventually settle. Space to recognize how tired I am or to remember someone. Space to hear Brian say something I might have half-heard if I were doing three other things.

There is space to watch the dogs and realize the sky has changed. There is space for absolutely nothing to happen. We don’t make much room for nothing anymore. Almost every empty moment can be filled. Our phones make sure of that.

Waiting rooms, commercial breaks, standing in line, and sitting in the car can all be filled. Even going to the bathroom, apparently. We rarely have to be alone with an unoccupied minute.

Maybe that makes stillness something we have to practice again. Not perfectly and not for hours. Just occasionally resisting the urge to immediately fill the open space. November seems to understand that.

The trees aren’t trying to replace their leaves. The landscape isn’t apologizing for becoming quieter. Nothing is rushing to fill what autumn released. There is simply more space now.

Perhaps that is one of the gifts of this season. After months of noticing everything happening behind the puddle, November may be teaching me to notice what happens when very little does. Maybe stillness is not an emptiness waiting to be filled. Maybe it is space waiting to be noticed.