There are moments when something inside me grows quiet.
Not empty. Just still.
Life hasn’t fallen apart. Nothing is obviously wrong. And yet, something feels slightly off. Not enough to name, but enough to notice. A question begins to surface, unannounced.
Am I living from what truly matters, or have I drifted without realizing it?
This isn’t a question born of crisis. It appears in the middle of ordinary days. Days that are full, responsible, and outwardly intact.
I begin to notice it first in myself.
The noticing doesn’t arrive as instruction or judgment. It comes as a subtle awareness, felt before it is understood. I begin to sense the difference between being anchored and being restless. Between moving with clarity and moving out of habit. Between living from remembering and living from forgetting.
At first, it isn’t obvious. I am still doing all the things. Showing up. Fulfilling responsibilities. Moving through the day.
But beneath the motion, something feels unsettled.
A weight I can’t quite name.
A tiredness that isn’t about the body.
Only with time do I recognize it.
I have been walking without an inner center.
And I know this much.
I don’t want to drift through life half-awake.
What surprises me is how quietly this happens.
Not through refusal or resistance, but through ease. Through days that fill themselves. Through attention pulled outward again and again, until what once felt near begins to thin. Until I am here, but not fully here.
I remember how it once felt to be gathered. To move with a sense of nearness. To carry an inward steadiness even when life was demanding. I didn’t name it then. I only knew how it felt to be in its nearness.
And in that remembering, something begins to stir.
Not urgency.
Not guilt.
A pull to return. A desire to live with attention rather than drift. To be here fully, not perfectly. To move from habit into awareness, one moment at a time.
This pull doesn’t resolve itself. It asks for practice. For honesty. For showing up again and again. Especially on ordinary days.
Devotion, I am learning, is not an event.
It is a way of staying.
And slowly, without force or certainty, I find myself choosing more carefully.
Pausing. Turning back. Learning how not to sleepwalk through what has been given.
And letting that be enough, for now.
