When the Waters Settle

"When the Watters Settle" by An Marke

There are seasons in life when the deepest work we can do is not in our striving, but in our waiting. It is a paradox that the mind often resists: to do nothing can, at times, be the most courageous act. We are so accustomed to believing that progress comes through effort, through the steady application of will, that we forget there is another way—a quieter, slower unfolding that belongs not to our pushing, but to the gentle rhythms of life itself.

There are times when our inner landscape feels clouded and unsettled, when the waters of the soul seem churned by worry, longing, or uncertainty. In such moments, the temptation is to reach in, to fix, to rearrange, to force resolution. Yet each act of agitation only disturbs the depths further. What if, instead, we learned to let the waters rest? What if we trusted that there is a natural clarity waiting to emerge when we release our grip?

Stillness is not the absence of life; it is the presence of a deeper order. In stillness, the quiet intelligence of the heart begins to rise. What was hidden beneath the surface comes forward of its own accord—like stones and shells revealed when the tide withdraws. The answers that once eluded us are no longer chased; they arrive, unhurried and whole, in their own perfect timing.

This kind of waiting is not laziness; it is a disciplined surrender. It requires a deep trust that life has its own seasons of ripening. Just as a field cannot be made to bloom by pulling at the buds, the soul cannot be rushed into its next chapter by the impatience of the mind. To rest in this trust is to enter a kind of sacred hospitality—welcoming what is here now without demanding that it change.

When we allow space, unseen forces begin their quiet work. Old wounds knit themselves in the dark. Confusion softens into perspective. The very ground beneath us steadies. And when clarity comes, it does not arrive as a thunderclap or a sudden, dramatic shift. It comes quietly, like the gradual light of dawn spilling over the horizon—so gentle that we hardly notice until the whole landscape is revealed.

Perhaps this is the hidden gift: that the way forward is often shaped not by our constant movement, but by our willingness to stop stirring the waters. In this patient resting, we discover that clarity is not something we create—it is something we receive.

If you were to enter such a season now, what might begin to settle? What might reveal itself to you in the hush between breaths? What wisdom might rise from the depths if you dared to let things be, trusting that, in their own time, they will find their way to the light?

All my Love and Light,
An