We all need a place to sit. Not merely a bench or a chair, but a place where the kaleidoscopic swirl of living begins to slow, where colours settle into one steady hue. It doesn’t matter what the place is, a beach, a hill, a patch of woodland, even a corner of a city park. What matters is the recognition: this is where the noise thins, where you can breathe again.
The world is not kind to “the quiet” anymore. The throb of engines, the hum of screens, the constant stream of things-to-do, the “You have new mail or chat” chirrups, beeps and whistles. These have become the background pulse of our existence. We have grown used to it, even comforted by it, but at a cost. The mind adapts to constant motion, and soon we forget how to stop. Silence begins to feel like absence rather than presence, like something missing instead of something whole.
Yet once, not so long ago, our ancestors knew the power of stopping. They stood at the edge of a field or on a cliff above the sea, leaning on a stick, feeling the wind. They didn’t call it mindfulness or retreat. It was simply being alive in the moment, breathing the same air as the world that made them. In that pause was understanding of place, of self, of belonging to something wider than the day’s demands. I used to see older folk when i was little doing just this, seldom to I see it now.
But … we can find that again. Sometimes it’s a matter of seeking, and sometimes of noticing: the quiet between waves, the stillness of morning light, the way a certain place seems to open inward as much as outward. These moments are invitations. They ask us to remember what it means to be a creature among other living things, to let the heart and the world fall into rhythm again.
Because when you stop, truly stop, something remarkable happens, at least it does to me. The world doesn’t rush past you after all; it comes closer. The air feels more honest, the sound of the waves or wind becomes a kind of language, and you begin to remember yourself not as a bundle of tasks and worries, but as part of something ancient and ongoing. In that quiet, you may find not answers, but alignment and that is enough. So take the time. Go sit. The world will keep turning, but for a little while, it will turn with you, not without you.
We speak easily about heart health, brain health, gut health, but what about self health? There’s a part of us that sits beneath the noise of daily living, the quiet observer that remembers who we are and why we’re here. Lately, that part seems to be struggling. The symptoms are everywhere: numbness, distraction, constant urgency. My inner medic has a name for it , the “Self Infarct”
Like a heart attack, it begins slowly. The channels of inner flow narrow without us noticing. Time once spent in stillness or reflection fills with notifications, background chatter, obligations we never truly chose. The vital supply of wonder and rest is cut off. The result is not death, but a kind of spiritual ischemia, a starving of the inner being. We keep moving, but without really feeling.
Preventing the Self Infarct means restoring circulation reintroducing quiet, curiosity, and connection into our days. It means sitting somewhere long enough for thought to settle, or walking without a destination, or simply allowing the world to exist without our commentary. These are not luxuries. They are forms of care as essential as breath or pulse.
We know how to manage a heart: diet, exercise, rest. The same applies to the self. We must feed it with meaning, exercise it with reflection, and rest it in silence. The difference is that when the self fails, the body keeps going which makes the condition harder to detect, and infinitely more dangerous.
To begin the repair, we must first notice the absence , that faint ache where the curiosity of childhood used to live, the dull fatigue that no sleep can fix. The treatment is not complicated: step outside, stop moving, let your senses take over. Breathe until the edges of the world come back into focus. In that moment, the pulse of self returns.
Because the self, like the heart, was built for rhythm, for expansion and release. When we tend to it, the flow resumes. The colour comes back. We remember what it feels like to be human again, alive not just in function but in presence. That is prevention. That is healing.