The Quiet Places that Hold Me Together

A rainy day like today, after months of sun - everything turns gray and dreamy. Somehow, the sound of rain slows me down, soften the edges, and reminds me of the quiet places that hold me together.

It's been two weeks since we returned to the office four days a week. My days now run on schedules that feel just a little too tight: alarm at six, out the door by seven, a 40-minute train ride that carries me into the city at eight, and a list that fills every hour once I arrive. By the time I return home, I'm low on fuel. But there are still more emails and tasks after dinner and dishes. When I finally crawl into bed around midnight, it feels as if the day has swallowed me whole.

I keep pushing through the fatigue, but somewhere inside, I'm still longing to reclaim myself and to find the quiet spaces that hold me together.

My train rides have become one of those spaces: 40 minutes of motion, music, and stillness all at once. Sometimes I write a few lines for Canopy Tales, sometimes I just look out the window and let my emotions merge with the music. The world rushes past, and for a little while, I don't have to rush with it.

Later in the evening, before shower and bed, I give myself 20 or 30 minutes on our stationary bike. The lights dimmed, pedals turning, music playing again. I find myself in the same emotional world as on the train. A rhythm that steadies me. A place where motion feels like rest.

Maybe this is how I learn to hold myself together when life runs too fast - by finding still ness inside movement, by claiming small pockets of time where no one asks for anything.

All that's left is to pause, to notice, and to breathe.