The Weight of Still Water

It is 3:15 am, and the house has finally stopped settling. In the dark, the mind does not look for movement; it looks for the places where everything has come to a complete halt. We spend our days running, terrified that if we stop, we will sink. We fear the stillness because it forces us to look at the reflection we have been avoiding. But there is a particular kind of honesty in a mirror that does not ripple. It shows you the edges of yourself that you usually blur with noise. To be still is to be vulnerable, exposed to the cold air of your own existence. We want to be deep, but we are afraid of what lives at the bottom of the lake. If you stare long enough into the black, does the water stare back, or does it just wait for you to finally admit that you are tired of swimming?

Zara Otaifah has captured this quiet surrender in her image titled Bear Lake in Spring. It reminds me that sometimes the most profound things happen when we simply stop moving. Does the silence of the mountains make you feel smaller, or does it finally let you breathe?