Of late I’ve become acutely aware of a flow and an ebb in my days. In my weeks. Really in my life. It’s nothing unique or new. In fact, it’s as natural and as old as the waxing and the waning of the moon. It’s my awareness of the rhythm of my own movement and stillness that’s recent.

Each morning I shift from a state of stillness (often assisted by the ministrations of a cat or two), into a state of movement. Regardless of feline help, the transition is usually gradual. It’s been almost a year since I set an alarm. I’m naturally an early riser and find I feel best if I let my body rise when it’s ready, which is usually well before the pre-sunrise glow has begun. My first movements are generally some gentle stretching while still in bed, and then I rise, toss on some version of yoga attire, and head to the kitchen for my coffee. Coffee in hand, the state of movement continues to progress with a 15-20 minute movement session. Some days it’s yoga, sun salutations and some warrior postures. Other days it’s a mobility routine based on rising from the ground and returning to seated without using my hands, with plenty of time hanging out in a low squat to open my hips and release my low back. These sessions are a way to unstick my joints, de-kink my muscles, and get the blood flowing after eight-ish hours of sleep. And while they aren’t workouts in and of themselves, I do find that this early morning practice assists with recovery from my lifting and running sessions, leading to better experiences in those pursuits. Easy movement easing the more challenging movement. Joints unstuck, muscles de-kinked, and blood freely flowing, I find my seat, transitioning once again into a state of stillness.

I’ve had a regular meditation practice since 2012, and haven’t had a day without a session since June 24, 2018. Some days I may meditate for 20 minutes. Others it might be a quick five. Most mornings I sit for 10-15 minutes. Often there’s a cat or two or three either on my lap or sprawled on my zabuton. We comprise our own little cozy satsanga. The thing with seated meditation, though, at least for me, is that I often find myself in a state somewhere between movement and stillness. Yes, outwardly I’m an image of calm: spine straight, chin slightly tucked, hands on thighs, eyes closed, breath easy. Stillness, right? Physical stillness for sure. But there are days when the Buddhist term “monkey mind” is not only appropriate but an understatement. It’s normal for thoughts to arise during meditation; new meditators are taught that when thoughts are recognized we should simply let the thought go and return focus to the breath. But, recognizing the thought is the key piece of that advice; if I don’t recognize that I’m having a thought I certainly can’t let the thought go. There are mornings when my timer goes off and I realize that I’d been thinking the entire time, as if the monkeys in my mind were amped up on sugar, caffeine, and speed. When I talk about meditation with people who don’t meditate I’m often told something along the lines of, “I’ve tried meditation but I can’t do it. I can’t clear my mind.” As though those of us with daily sitting practice can just shut off our brains! No, the thoughts are normal. Meditation, however, makes us aware of the busyness of our minds. There are plenty of days that my seated practice feels easy; I notice the occasional thought but don’t get sucked into following that monkey through the branches. And it’s true that as my practice has deepened I experience such sessions more often. But even on mornings when my mind chases after every shiny thought that arises, I don’t criticize myself when the session is over or qualify it as having been a “bad” session (at least, I don’t anymore; when my practice was new I used to think such sessions didn’t count and that I wasn’t good at meditating). Such monkey-minded meditations make me aware that my mind is in a wild sort of state on that particular morning. And as someone who’s attempting to increase her awareness of Self, that’s critical information to have. All of this to say that movement and stillness aren’t always easy to discern. Physical stillness does not necessarily equate to mental stillness.

Meditation complete, I flow into movement yet again. And this time the movement phase will often last for the remainder of my waking hours. This extended stretch of movement generally consists of the normal stuff of life in our Western culture: work and chores and driving and errands and training sessions and cooking meals and cleaning up meals, all the while checking email and social media and responding to texts. Unfortunately, I progress through much of it in a state of utter mindlessness. And I know I’m not alone in this. We all do it. It’s this very tendency to move through our lives on autopilot that causes us to say things like “I can’t believe it’s already November! Where did the year go?” Or, “Your son is starting college? It seems that just yesterday he was starting kindergarten!” As I move through a routine day in a routine manner, I’m rarely present in the moment. On the drive to work my mind is planning out the tasks I need to accomplish that day, or what I’ll make for dinner that night. Or I’m going through a play-by-play of the frustrating conversation that took place the night before. Or a decade before. On Wednesday I’m anticipating the weekend, and on Sunday I’m dreading Monday. One side effect of my dedicated meditation practice is that I’m all too aware of how often I’m operating on cruise control. I recognize it. It’s not that I’ve overcome it through meditation, but I know that I slip into that mode far more often than I’d like. In an attempt to increase my presence in the present, I’ve taken to seeking stillness in movement. Sometimes I find it on a run, when I can go miles with my focus only on the oceanic sound of my breath and the rhythmic cadence of my steps. Sometimes I find it when my kitten Steven crawls into my lap while I’m working and I pause to experience the vibration of his purring and to feel the velvet softness of his fur. I’ve even found such stillness when tasting a soup I made from scratch, or when sipping on a glass of wine.

Eventually, the day draws to an end and I transition once again towards stillness. My wind down is as gradual as my waking. A warm soak. Some time reading. Adjusting the pillow, snuggling under the blankets, and then sleep. And eight or so hours later it’s back to movement.

Humans are animals and as such we are meant to move. In our society, too many of us move far less than we should. And yet, our collective spiking stress levels prove that our minds rarely, if ever, rest. Personally, I thrive on movement and love the endorphin rush of a good run or a tough lifting session. For me, movement is easy. Stillness, now there’s the challenge. But I know that a practice of mindful stillness (active stillness, if you will) will result in more moments of presence. And more moments of presence will lead to more moments of true living.

Movement flows into stillness flows into movement. Inhale leads to exhale leads to inhale. But know this: there will be an exhale that is not followed by an inhale, and there will be a stillness that is not followed by movement.

Ultimately, stillness is the state into which we’re all moving.