Quiet and lingering

Sometimes I’m surprised by how often I need to retreat after socializing. It’s not that I don’t enjoy being social, nor do I consider myself an introvert. There are simply times when I’d rather be by myself.

Much of my joy these days occurs in private, quieter moments, at a distance from the crowd where I can respond to the world in an unhurried manner. It’s easier to linger and let my imagination roam this way—on a child’s gait and the way he move through space; on a beautiful woman’s voice and laugh; on the universes held within words that have been arranged like bouquets. People are universes too, but sometimes they crowd out other aspects of my conscious experience that I delight in. This too is an experience of its own, one I’m continuously learning how to make room for.

Some people move through life as if it were a giant buffet to be gorged on. They constantly bounce from one idea and happening and art piece to the next, never really going deeper on one single portion. It’s relatable, particularly when it comes to books and ideas. But I’ve noticed that I tend to circle back to the same threads over and over again—Buddhist being and practice; stories and writing; music and emotions.

I move slowly in learning and thought. I like to dwell and feel the passage of time. People who I feel comfortable in silence with are treasures. A universe like mine needs adequate space, a chance to chew. I come alive when I sense the presence of absence, when what’s happening is allowed to bloom like a flower before spring, when the roses are not merely sniffed like a TikTok reel, but fully received as a gift. There’s a desire for depth over breadth, a reassurance in the motions that emerge while sitting still.

The hours soften and steady themselves when I have the freedom to explore and create. This was true for me as a kid, and it remains so today. Like John Mayer in his formative years, I find and build temples around what feels sacred to me. I have my places to return to when the world gets too loud, refuges where I can worship the song in a single chord or poem. It’s here where I find again and again that this is enough. That magic and the sacred are real, that they’re in all of us and all around us. The work is seeing it, believing it, letting it live through us as it intends. This is why I write.

In the quiet, on my own, it’s easier for me to find, nurture, and eventually, share.