Finding Stillness in a Vase
I find that I have a very difficult time staying still. Whether that means literally staying in one place without having the urge to get up and do something every 5 minutes or if that means I can’t imagine my life slowing down when I’ve stringently built up a momentum that works for me and the life I’m developing at a preferred pace. It may be because I fear that if I pause for even a split second my world could crumble into bits and undo all my hard work. Or it may be because I don’t know anything else other than moving forward and moving fast because life feels like a race, sometimes. I used to believe slowness meant being weak and stillness meant exposing the perfect breeding ground for terrible things to happen, especially for the uncomfortable dangers in my own mind and body.
But during a significant moment in our history where the world is begging for us to slow down and stay still, for both the benefit and health of others, stillness is no longer a choice—it is a dire need for us all. And while it’s clear that this is supposed to be a collective act for public healing and people’s wellbeing, this call for stillness also presents itself as a significant opportunity for our personal selves to look inward and reflect on how this extended pause bears the breaths we may need after all. It asks us to examine the quality of our lives and analyze the complexities that have weaved themselves into our everyday living. We are finally confronting the intentional meanings we place behind our actions through our own intimate lens and deep dissections.
For me, stillness is not something I can simply welcome with open arms. It is foreign territory and a new language to assimilate into my life, and as with any abrupt—not to mention forced—change, I am always hesitant, fully prepared with instinctive doubtfulness. But as I sit here and hear nothing more than the city cars trudging along outside my window at 11pm on a Tuesday, I look to all the objects and furniture and still life around me as projected moments of clarity and introspection. I think about how I can take a note or two from understanding life in pause from these inanimate objects because well, there really isn’t anything or anyone else right now, is there? And truthfully, there is always something to learn outside of ourselves to help us better understand the inside of ourselves.
So I imagined myself as one of these objects and I wrote their rambling thoughts…
I am a glass vase. Most of the time empty unless you fill me with beautiful things. I’m heavy but fragile, depending on how you hold me. However, cradling with both hands is probably best. Proceed with caution because I can break, “handle with care” as they say.
Today I’m holding tulips. They’re not fully bloomed yet but I find solace in the fact that I get to be the support they need to expand and grow. I get to watch them grow day by day. It’s been a while since I was acknowledged for being needed but every now and then, the desire to fill a room with color and vibrance and freshly cut stems becomes sudden and urgent and there I am ready to be of use, of worth. Especially for being as clear and hollow as I am, the warmth of another touch is very much welcomed. I may be quiet but I can still be noticed. I may be transparent but I still have depth. I tend to move around a lot but not by my choice, just wherever I seem to belong. Sometimes by the sun, sometimes in the center of the coffee table, sometimes on the floor. But no matter what, it seems of utmost importance where I am placed as though I am what ties it all together. It’s nice to feel needed like that. It certainly contrasts the times the flowers seem to wilt or the leaves have fallen off, clinging onto me by one lonely stem. That’s the hardest to bear. They go while I stay for another life to take its place. I cherish it most when I’m on the window sill, lined with the other vases and books and knick knacks that keep me company, but more significantly, basking in the sun for all my insides to get their daily nutrients.
Today, I feel much more confident in my body. I sometimes think I wish I were more abstractly formed or had a telltale story to display—like I traveled from a lands afar and was one person’s trash until someone else saw me as a piece of treasure even through all the rust and chips and cracks. Today I stand tall, proud, and strong. Other times, I feel inadequate compared to these other vases that can hold much more or fit somewhere much nicer but today, I’m feeling good.
These tulips need me and I need them—it’s a lovely relationship we have and sometimes, I get jealous when they get all the attention when I am doing just as much to be of worth but then I remember, we are not so if we did not have each other. Alone, we are beautiful because we were specifically chosen but together we make statements. We make art. Pedestals are important figures, too. We’re the ones making sure the beauty of things are seen.
I really do hate when I don’t have fresh water though. There’s only so much I can do with used water when I’m providing for all these stems. I’m only really fed when the water begins to brown. How sad—we only remember to nourish one another when we’re visibly rotting. But that’s me complaining. Today I am grateful. Today I am holding tulips and they’re blooming. We’re blooming together.
