The Weight of Still Water

The weight of still water is not nothing. It presses against the vessel with the patience of stone.

So too the interior life holds its mass in silence — the discipline that does not shout, the prayer that leaves no mark.

I have mistaken stillness for absence. I have confused the quiet with the empty.

But the deep lake bends the reeds at shore, the untraveled ocean moves the hull. Nothing that holds weight is without consequence.

The unformed man calls this rest. The serious man calls this readiness.

Form me, Lord, into a vessel worthy of the weight you mean to pour.