Just sitting
No effort.
No goal.
No method.
Just sitting.
Not even meditation,
not really.
Not trying to get anywhere,
not seeking stillness or peace or insight.
Just this.
The warmth of a body on a chair.
The gentle rhythm of breath without needing to shape it.
The ache in the back that comes and goes.
The birds outside.
The hum of the fridge.
The rising thought…
And its passing.
Everything is welcome.
Nothing needs to be sorted
or fixed or figured out.
This practice (if you can call it that)
is so simple the mind will overlook it.
Too bare,
too ordinary,
too quiet for a world addicted to doing (activity).
But this…
This not-doing,
this holy pause,
this sacred nothing
begins to reveal something else…
That I am already here.
That Life is already whole.
That the silence is not empty
but full.
Alive.
And in the stillness,
a kind of listening begins…
Not with ears,
but with the whole of «me.»
A soft listening that has no agenda,
no clever tricks.
Just presence.
And what is found, again and again,
in the ground beneath the busy mind,
is that I am already held,
already loved.
already home.
Not because anything is achieved,
but because the running has stopped.
To be…
Without decoration,
without defense,
without performance.
Just sitting.
And in that,
the mystery rushes in…
The kind you can’t talk about,
only bow to.
So if you’re tired—
not just in your body,
but tired of trying to be something,
tired of figuring it all out,
tired of the seeking…
Come.
Sit.
Nothing more is needed.
Let everything else fall.
Just this.
Just sitting.
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