Still Waters

Where the Heart Heals

In silence, thoughts bloom like petals, unfolding gently, each in its own time. The noise of the world fades away, leaving behind pure, unadulterated presence. There’s a layer of stillness that feels like a soft discourse with the heart—richly crafted and artfully interwoven with care.

Unexpected beauty breathes life into the most mundane details, leaving the air steeped in reflection and wonder. It stirs emotions that linger at the core of my soul, illuminating the ordinary with a delicate touch of grace. It uncovers quiet truths lying just out of sight, inviting discovery.

Every so often, silence itself becomes a song, resonating like a forgotten melody in the heart of the universe. It is not an absence but a presence—thick and pregnant with meaning. In these moments, time seems to stretch and fold, and the world holds its breath, as if attuned to an ancient sound buried beneath layers of clamor.

It is a quiet so deep that it echoes within, a wide expanse that calls for introspection and a deeper grasp of the self. It speaks in ways language cannot, softly revealing truths too sacred to be voiced, pulling us closer to the raw, unspoken parts of our being.

Amidst this quietude, one can hear the fluttering of thoughts that would otherwise remain hidden, along with the subtle hum of existence. It is a rare space where earthly distractions fall away, allowing the pure essence of life to rise into the light.

In that stillness, there is peace but also a certain yearning—a longing for something beyond what can be seen, beyond what can be heard—a reaching for the infinite that lingers just out of one’s hold, yet is ever near.

It is a place I visit to find clarity, where I sift through the tangled threads of my mind and unearth what truly matters. I think back to the early mornings of my childhood, sitting alone by the window. The universe outside felt suspended, as if time had halted to let me listen. The faint rustling of leaves, the far-off murmur of a bird’s wings slicing through the air, or the tender fall of water droplets from the sky—those were the sounds that shaped my understanding of silence.

In those moments, I first felt the weight of reflection. I realized then that silence is not emptiness; it is intention, waiting patiently for those willing to sit with it. It is not something to fill but something to honor. In a world obsessed with movement and sound, stillness becomes an act of rebellion. It is a way of saying, I will not rush. I will not ignore the quiet truths of my life. It is an invitation to slow down, to listen, to belong.

I recall mornings on my grandmother’s porch, wrapped in the kind of silence that exists before the day awakens. The air was cool and carried the faint scent of damp earth. I would sit with her as she watered the garden, the only sound the tender splash of water meeting soil. She rarely spoke, yet her presence was louder than any words. It was here that I first learned the language of stillness—the way it cradles you, asks nothing of you, and yet gives you everything.

It was my grandmother who taught me how to listen. She never hurried her words, often letting the spaces between them linger like notes in a song. Her silences were intentional, filled with wisdom I could only understand much later. Watching her tend to her plants in the early hours, I saw how she let the quiet guide her intuition—how she leaned into its comfort, finding peace in the smallest, most ordinary tasks. I remember sitting beside her, not speaking, just existing in her company. Back then, I realized how silence can bring people closer without a single word being exchanged.

It isn’t always gentle, though. At times, it feels oppressive, with grief amplifying its weight until it seems unbearable, as if the world itself has frozen for a brief instant. After some heartfelt losses, silence enveloped me, forcing me into a confrontation with pain I could not escape. It was a harsh companion—raw in its nature, stripping away distractions and holding space for healing to begin. Paradoxically, the very thing that had once been comforting now became a vessel for my sorrow—a place for my heart to break and, slowly, to mend.

I often wonder what life might sound like if we embraced silence, not as something to fear but as something sacred. If we listened to the pauses between breaths, the spaces between words, or the stillness beneath the chaos, what insights would come to light? Perhaps we’d hear the rhythm of our own hearts, steady and unwavering. Perhaps we’d sense the presence of something greater, reminding us that even in stillness, we are not alone.

And so, I return to my writing practice again and again, not out of necessity but out of love. It is where I question, where I pray, where I dream. It is where I find the chance to see with clarity, to hope with depth, and to exist with boldness. It is where the world makes sense in its nonsensical way, where the littlest moments blossom into something extraordinary. In silence, I rediscover myself. And maybe, just maybe, that is enough.

P.S. Inspired by the piece

Donna McArthur

shared last Sunday.

Xo,

Thaíssa Lara