I started this blog as I was starting to run marathons. It was, at the time, a blissful way to leave things behind and get some quite. Making myself a plodding metronome of forward motion, like a physical kind of meditation, coupled with leaving technology behind. Running for the quiet. The last marathon I ran was a wet miserable affair 13 years ago. I pretty much never ran again after that weekend.
This month has been a different kind of marathon.
It started with a week off, which, to be clear, was not “restful.” It recharged my will to live, but was not restful. When I was at my lowest mental health point, I used to test myself. I’d travel to a place I liked, and see how long I would stay there before I headed back to “real life.” A weird kind of “chicken” with myself and my reality. I know it doesn’t make sense, I’ve explained it in therapy and it still doesn’t make sense.
On my week off I went back to these places, I think to use it as a way to calibrate my current mental health status. But also to remind myself that at some point I loved going to other cities or towns, looking at art, visiting yarn shops and drinking coffee in nice places. These were things I enjoyed at one time, and became stained grey with depression. Some trips were better than others. I found that, once I’d given myself permission to arrive and leave on my own schedule, there was enjoyment in these excursions. It felt like a restoration of my soul, but not a rest for my body.
Then came the Fringe. Four days of crowds, shows, and the peculiar energy of Edinburgh in August. It’s part inspiration, part overstimulation, and all of it while walking up cobblestone hills. It was brilliant, chaotic and exhausting. There’s a special guilt I enjoy here, I went to Fringe, for work, and I’m complaining about it. It was amazing. It was exhausting. Both of these things can be true at the same time.
And just when I thought I might catch my breath, I was off again, this time for a head office trip. A different kind of busy, where my day was full of talking and planning, building furniture to upgrade our office space, discussing stats and comparing years of data, and I get back to my hotel room wondering if I remembered to drink any water at all.
So now it’s Bank Holiday weekend, and for once, I’m not going anywhere. No train tickets. No suitcase. No itinerary. Just my personal space, a pile of laundry, and the rare opportunity to actually be quiet.
The thing is, quiet isn’t always easy. Busy feels natural. Busy looks productive. Busy means I don’t have to stop and check in with myself. Sitting still, on the other hand, feels suspicious. I must be doing it wrong? Wasting time? Or missing out on something?
But I think that’s exactly why I need it. This weekend isn’t about catching up, or being productive, or even “recovering.” It’s about stopping. About remembering that sitting still has value, even if it doesn’t look impressive on a calendar or in a photo.
Maybe I’ll knit, because at least then my restless hands have something to do. Maybe I’ll stretch my hips and pretend that counts as yoga. Maybe I’ll finally read something that isn’t on a screen. Or maybe I’ll just stare into space and call it meditation. Whatever shape it takes, I want this weekend to feel unapologetically small.
Because if this month has been about movement, then this weekend is about stillness. And honestly, stillness feels like the harder thing to choose.
So here’s to a Bank Holiday spent doing less, aggressively. I might have stopped running marathons, but I’m still chasing the Quiet.