On Doing Nothing.

When we talk about people, we talk about beings who are vastly complex. Every answer we find is met with a deep sigh and the realization that we are still far from solving what makes us truly us. People are patterned, yet never formulaic.

This summer, I met a man named Kevin* who announced his loss to anyone who cared to listen. He wasn’t loud or “Woe is me” about it, but he showed his grief with a quiet sort of boldness. Invitationally. He wore it as a tattered black armband, just gilded enough to catch your eye. He mentioned the band was made from his “wings,” and though I didn’t pursue that further, it seemed to Kevin to be a necessary detail—an inside joke to keep his smirk smoldering, even while his face felt numb.

“I’m wearing this because I’m wounded. This is worn for my partner and me—we didn’t work out.”

He told me he is following a forgotten tradition. He saw a wisdom in how Victorian folk used their clothes to express truths about one’s life. Black garb symbolized loss, and sometimes people would wear black for up to a year. Kevin said he made a commitment a while back that he would be more forthcoming with others and more honest with himself; the armband is a manifestation of that.

I can relate to this loss, and you likely can too. Maybe you did the leaving, or maybe you were left, or maybe it was an agreement. It may have felt more volcanic, violently tectonic. If not earth-shattering, perhaps it was at least a shuffling of plates, finding new faults in places and people we once believed to be whole.

With all this perceived moving and shaking, perhaps Kevin sees his role as simply to stay put, as if waiting for the earth to calm and a blanket of ash to fall. Stillness is a gift, if we care to accept it, but we so often need an outside voice to remind us of this option.

When I look back on the nights that I would self-medicate or self-harm, it was most often driven by this desire to just do something. I felt as if I had to fix whatever chaos was dizzying me, when all along, doing nothing was completely acceptable. By “doing nothing,” I don’t mean being lazy or apathetic; in fact, I mean the opposite. I simply mean being still enough to realize this world is big; still enough to believe every tree is competing to fill my lungs; still enough to accept that whatever is broken, or burnt, or buried, or severed can still be restored; still enough to find comfort in the fact that constellations are still being created. Still …

When I had had enough, what I really meant was that I was full of all the worst things and lacked an outlet. The option existed all along to just be still and let life happen. Being still doesn’t mean journeying alone. I think it means acknowledging life in the places we most often overlook, watching, being awake to all that is going on, both inside and out.

Even in his stillness, Kevin did rise from that initial pain, and as he rose, he took with him his torn remnants. His wings were diminished to a rag, and for as long as he needs it, it will be the last thing he puts on every morning. In mourning, it is his first conscious thought. And though this blackness is that last thing he ties on, it is also the first thing he sheds every night. One of these days, I believe, he’ll forget to put it back on.

—Chad Moses

*Name is changed to respect the privacy of the individual.