Most days, I crave stillness. The kind that emulates those moments in movies where the main character stops and looks out, all action blurring around them in a moment of connection, of truth, of seeing. Between you, you’ve arrived at a place of knowing.

Some days, if I’m lucky, I manage to create some semblance of it through meditation or movement. But it’s more effortful and contrived than I’d like. In these moments, locating stillness feels like forcing two magnets together that can’t help but repel. Before the stillness has settled enough for me to notice it, my mind skitters off into a distant land, drawing me hopelessly with it.

On a few days a year, if I create the space and conditions for its arrival, I achieve stillness in its fullest sense. Saturday was one of those days.

I am currently and have been for most of my teen and adult life, someone who finds that interactions with humans are accompanied by a myriad of stresses. I reject the judgement of others whilst simultaneously holding concern over how I’m being perceived. I plan for the smallest of conversations. I choose not to plan and wonder, ‘What if I had’. I talk for longer than I should, editing as I go, preoccupied with whether I’m being understood. I respond in a jumble, certain that I have been misunderstood but unable to correct in time. I abandon my fear and speak openly, often wondering if I should have edited after all. I’m learning to turn my self-view off. I’m attempting to say something once and then ask, what do you think? I’m discovering the safe spaces, conditions and interactions where these worries ebb away or are utterly unable to locate an entrance.

Humans, for me, rarely produce stillness within me or without. Aloneness is a space I’ve learned to cultivate. Cherished time away from all the jangling discordance of other voices, energies, and beings. Some days, writing or walking can offer me a momentary glimpse of my own self, my own light, my own knowing. On occasion, the quality of this stillness arrives unexpectedly and without effort. Invited in by what? Ideal conditions? Alignment of body and mind? Some higher power? Saturday was one of those days.

Since my solo trip to Scotland last year, I’m choosing to commit to finding regular spaces where adventure is possible, building my confidence, consciousness, and capacity for joy. This weekend was my latest dedicated window of discovery. Let me transport you there.

After a coastal walk where I follow my feet in an unplanned way, I arrive at woodland and a steep set of wooden steps. I descend steps upon steps until my underused muscles become rather vocal before, at last, I stagger across stones towards sand and sea. I wander towards the lapping shore. I glance around me. Inhale deeply, 2, 3, 4. Hold, 2, 3, 4. Exhale fully 2, 3, 4, 5, 6. Close my eyes and enjoy the warm sun on my face and shoulders. There is tranquillity here. I pace a few steps back and drape my coat on the ground. I flop down, locate chocolate, and consume greedily whilst surveying the scene. A family, a dog, a ball being passed. Distant walkers. Breath returned to normal, I lay back and gaze overhead. I take in the endless blue sky with only seagulls squalling. I am soothed by the predictable waves gently lapping. I absorb the ground beneath my limbs. My life falls away from reach. My mind searches for lurking worry and finds none to grasp. Everything blurs and melts around the edges. Me. There you are. Hello. Me. Enough. Am. Are. Be. Exist. Me and you beach. Me and you sea. Me and you sky. Me and you. Me. Welcome home. I’ve missed you, my love.

Afterwards, the effects linger as an acceptance of myself, a calm certainty about my life, and an opening for my needs and wants to trickle in. If I choose to set down the ever-present doubts that bounce at the edges, this feels like an answer of sorts. A possibility of sorts. A closer than I was to my knowing.

Journeying to my latest adventure this weekend, I listened to an episode of Hurry Slowly. In it, Prentis Hemphill offers much wisdom in their conversation with Jocelyn Glei. Prentis offers an enticing call to action: ‘Find a way to belong with yourself, even if you don’t feel belonging elsewhere.’ Seeking connection, knowing and a home outside of myself has so far proven elusive. Instead of running from and rejecting myself, perhaps I’ll trust in nurturing my inner belonging for a while. For the first time, I believe that the home I can create there might well be one worth inhabiting.