Silent

 Today, I move slower—not because I am tired, but because I am listening.

I notice how gravity holds me without effort.

How my feet meet the ground.

How movement has become meditation, and breath has become enough.

I don’t rush to explain myself anymore.

I don’t rush to correct the world.

Silence feels more accurate than words.

I see how easily humans speak—how we reach for answers, stories, certainty.

And I understand now: talking is often a way to stay afloat.

Stillness requires trust.

I feel the difference in my body.

Not in ideas, not in beliefs—but in posture, breath, and presence.

The spine tells the truth before the mouth ever does.

There was a time when contradiction would ignite me.

Now it passes through like weather.

I don’t need to argue what I can feel.

I’m learning that peace has weight.

It costs something.

Sometimes comfort.

Sometimes recognition.

Sometimes the illusion of having it all figured out.

Yet I remain grateful.

Grateful that I had nothing to replace my struggle.

Grateful that I had to sit with myself long enough to hear what’s real.

I don’t need to convince anyone.

I don’t need to perform wisdom.

I only need to stay present, grounded, and honest with this moment.

Gravity doesn’t speak.

The body doesn’t debate.

Life doesn’t rush.

And today, neither do I.

Yoruba Yogi