Why you must be still sometimes
On the work and rest inherent in pressing pause
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Exiting the subway one night in 2016, I saw a piece of graffiti with the advice I needed:
I had moved to New York to throw myself into music-making; to test myself in one of the most famous music cities in the world. It seemed like every week revealed a little more about the limits of my talent, my hustle, my self-belief. This subway message felt like permission for respite.
It was the feeling of, having thrown oneself into a fast-moving river, realizing the water is shallow enough to stand up in. I hadn’t understood there was time to stop and get my bearings. I had been moving with ravenous, terrified urgency, compiling lists of self-improvements and critical domain knowledge I needed to have obtained yesterday. It was exhausting.
Also on stillness: in Song Club #46: What You Have I shared an anecdote I learned about how Brian Eno starts each day by doing nothing; by simply allowing whatever is already in him to rise to the surface. Encountering this version of stillness, I experience resistance. Starting the day this way feels toooooo hard.
But this is stillness. Stillness is both rest and work. And in both instances, stillness was necessary for creativity to continue.
This week, some dispatches on that.
Much love,
Lucy
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a. Dreaming
Uncovering your relationship to stillness
This week, some simple journalling prompts:
In what moments do you yearn for stillness?
In what moments do you avoid stillness?
In either case, when or where does stillness serve your creativity?
Conversely, where does it not?
b. Doing
A small way to be still
Stop wherever you are. Ask yourself ‘What is happening inside me?’. Pay attention until you know. Then, ask yourself ‘What is happening outside me?’. Pay attention until you know. Move on with your day. Make something about what you noticed later.