Nothing ever stays the same.

Not me, not you. Not mountains, not blades of grass.

On the scale of the cosmos and the scale of the atom everything is changing, everything is moving.

Not only the things are changing, the relationships between things are constantly changing.

There is the constant forward moving energy of life. When we constrain this movement we can hurt others and ourselves. This hurt becomes the stage for the next movement.

When we try to solidify someone, something or a relationship, we’re in trouble, as we lose the openness to newness, we lose receptivity to what is right in front of us. We become rigid, get locked into patterns, get stiff with repetition and routines.

If everything is moving, and everything is in transition, transforming itself, how and where do we find stillness? And how do we create stability? Well, here’s a hint: There’s movement within stillness. And there’s stillness within movement.

Listen to this verse by TS Eliot:

At the stillpoint of the turning world
there the dance is.
And without the point
that stillpoint
there would be no dance
and there is only the dance.

Our modern culture is built on mobility, on constant distraction, on speed. How do you find the stillpoint in a society that can’t stand still, that doesn’t like the idea of somebody doing nothing?

We need something to anchor our lives. We need some constancy. Otherwise the constant movement spins us out of control.

Here’s my idea: Nature can provide an anchor for our lives. Its cycles and rhythms can be seen, felt and experienced. It is the larger context. It can hold us. But if we view nature as a resource for our consumer desires it won’t fulfil this role for us.

As the solstice arrives today, as the days lengthen (or shorten), can you feel that change? Can you move into stillness within that movement?