Stillness Stewing

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I settle myself on the porch step. Turning my face to the sun, I sigh, joyful. It’s our first sun in a week. I bask in the warmth of its glow. Seda sits down beside me. She balances a bowl of stew on her knee and hands me one. 

I smile, receiving this gift, and point to the glass of water I’ve poured her. Seda thanks me. The sun’s rays cut through chill January air, but a crispness remains. We are bundled in jackets and scarves. A swirl of steam rises from my bowl, dancing in empty space. The stew smells delicious.

We come together in this rare winter light … Seda, me, the stew. Our cat squints up at us with one eye and sniffs the air. We are poised in stillness. It is a celebration of joining. We are all happy to see one another.

Stillness emerges after movement. We would not recognize it otherwise. Last Sunday, Seda and I bustled about washing carrots, celery, and turnips. We braised pasture-raised beef and stewed the lot for hours while we tidied home and garden in preparation for our week. 

We invested our energy then into the steaming bowls we now hold in our hands on a Wednesday afternoon. We cooked enough for an entire week. 

It's a practice of mine to enjoy the movement, the rush even, of a weekend day to co-create stillness on my lunch hour mid-week. I hold this hour as sacred between teaching classes. It is filled with love.

Rather than see my weekend as “eaten up" by chores, I can turn on some music, grab my apron, and grin. I imagine the stillness that will one day emerge from the preparations made. The stillness and the movement are one.

Seda and I sit now, poised at winter’s edge, illuminated by the brightest of suns and nourished by our efforts. So many other beings have gifted us too—carrots, celery, an onion, a cow. We are fed.

When are you nourished by your efforts and the efforts of others? Do you pause to consider the flow of movement and stillness in this gift?