Still Life
When a life is not constantly in motion, which contradicts the basics of living, how do you accept stillness versus knowing when you are stuck?
“In March I'll be rested, caught up and human”
― Sylvia Plath, from a letter to her mother, Aurelia Plath
Brittanica defines a “Human being,” as “a culture-bearing primate classified in the genus Homo, especially the species H. sapiens. Human beings are anatomically similar and related to the great apes but are distinguished by a more highly developed brain and a resultant capacity for articulate speech and abstract reasoning.”
And then there’s being human. The qualities of humanity in all the forms it takes. — bravery, loyalty, kindness, insecurity, fear, arrogance. There is also a standard to being human that has much to do with timelines. A standard of what you should be doing as opposed to maybe what, and who you are.
For a few months now, I’ve struggled with the concept of where I’m supposed to be, and what I’m supposed to be doing. Let me stop you before there’s protest — “That’s a very relatable sentence in your twenties, hell your thirties — maybe just your whole life.” I do know this. I am learning (as I go) that perhaps our whole adult lives are just one, very connected, long process of accepting responsibility for the choices we’ve made while trying to figure out these exact questions.
One of the biggest ways I’ve coped over the last few years is through movement. Feeling stuck? I drive for hours. If I can afford it, I take a plane. It’s a privilege to avoid “real life” in a place where no one knows you yet. With this method, in the past 3 years, I’ve moved houses, countries, homes, and cities. I’ve been simultaneously overwhelmed by the sheer amount of constant momentum but also fully buoyed by it. And it’s nice to exist in strident motion — for a spell.
But there’s always a moment, somewhere in the frenetics of my travel when I close my eyes and find myself longing for quiet. This longing shifts in the light, like the sun through a lace curtain, casting shadows pitted with bright spots. Because it can be a delicate thing, no more than sheer fabric in your hands, to sustain stillness. When this moment of stillness presents itself, as it has in recent months, I have found that I am not very good at still life.
It is, undeniably, still very much living to be in one place, trying on a routine like a new pair of shoes. But in my mind, a still life is fruit placed on a tablecloth, or a bleached anatomical leg bone that you’re handed in a college art class, making a mess with charcoal. There you sit, sketching angles, drawing details — ever so calmly and quietly. Still life is removing your new shoes at the door and settling into the something you’ve chosen. Give me a few months of stillness, and I’ll find a reason to leave in my socks, new shoes be damned.
I’m learning not to leave, and gathering the tools of how to be peaceful and still where I am. In doing this, I’ve found pockets of movement, moments of shifting that I’d missed before entirely when I was caught up in the rush of my running.
I, like Sylvia, will try to be rested, caught-up, and human, this month. Though, I’m accepting that being human is nowhere near as straightforward as the dictionary definition of Human being suggests.