Restlessly, I am lounging on the couch. I sit still, but my insides are rumouring. A habit I have formed early in my life (although my life itself is very much in its early stage) which urges me to do something. Anything. It gets as absurd as getting up, walking to the window only to return to my place in a blink of the eye.
“Hands, Be Still,” I think, reciting a song from Ólafur Arnalds’ “For Now I Am Winter” album. Busyness and productivity have made me a spinning top, a victim to their force and ideology in which they are advertised.
When I plan on having a quiet day, I truly need to force myself to just sit and be. To let this feeling of stress, jitteriness, almost imploding come over me—pass through me. And then: nothing.
As the tension in my muscles vanishes, I can slowly feel how I become calmer. How I find it easier to let thoughts come to me and to deal with them without worrying too much.
I like to think of this process as befriending a stray dog. In the beginning, they won’t even look at you. They shiver, withdraw the closer you get, afraid you will hurt them. And there is absolutely nothing you can do but wait.
With time, they might take a bite to eat from the floor, then from your open hand. They seem to relax and gain a sense of trust. Finally they start letting you pet them. Slowly and only for a short time before they increase distance once more.
It can be a tiring process, but worth it in the end. When they lay on your lap, soothingly snoring with peace of mind.
And what I think of as my stray dog, is my heart. How much would I give to take it out my chest, and wrap my arms around it. Stroke it a little. Tell it everything will be okej eventually.