Speaker 1: Us studious. Hello friend, welcome back to Stillness Journal Extended.
Speaker 1: I am Maya, and I am so glad you are here.
Speaker 1: Settle in, take a breath, and let yourself arrive in
Speaker 1: this moment. There is something I have been sitting with
Speaker 1: for the past few weeks, and I wanted to offer
Speaker 1: it to you to day, gently, in case it is
Speaker 1: the thing your own heart has been trying to say.
Speaker 1: It is about beginning, about the moment when we feel
Speaker 1: the pull towards something new, a fresh intention, a quieter
Speaker 1: way of living, a softer way of being with ourselves,
Speaker 1: and we hesitate not because we do not want to begin,
Speaker 1: but because we do not feel ready. I want to
Speaker 1: speak to that hesitation to day because I think it
Speaker 1: is one of the quiet places where most of us
Speaker 1: lose our way. And I think it is also one
Speaker 1: of the quiet places where most of us can find
Speaker 1: our way back, if we are willing to be a
Speaker 1: little gentler with ourselves about what beginning actually requires. So
Speaker 1: often the thought that stops us is not I do
Speaker 1: not want to begin. It is I cannot begin yet.
Speaker 1: I need to finish something else first. I need to
Speaker 1: figure it out first. I need to be more prepared,
Speaker 1: more healed, more rested, more certain. I need to be
Speaker 1: the kind of person who is ready for this before
Speaker 1: I actually begin. And the wish behind that thought is
Speaker 1: so tender. It is the wish to do it well,
Speaker 1: the wish to begin from a place that is whole,
Speaker 1: the wish to honor whatever we are stepping into by
Speaker 1: arriving at it in the right way. It is a
Speaker 1: wish that comes from a good place. It is a
Speaker 1: wish that comes from caring. But there is a quieter
Speaker 1: truth underneath. The truth is that beginning does not require
Speaker 1: a clean slate. Beginning does not require us to be
Speaker 1: finished with the last thing. Beginning does not require us
Speaker 1: to have it all figured out. Beginning does not require
Speaker 1: us to be in any meaningful sense ready. Beginning only
Speaker 1: requires the willingness to begin. That is the wholest willingness,
Speaker 1: Not capability, not certainty, not having everything else in order,
Speaker 1: just willingness. I think of the friend who told me,
Speaker 1: with a kind of embarrassed laugh, that she had been
Speaker 1: wanting to meditate for years. Years. She had read books,
Speaker 1: she had downloaded apps, she had bought a beautiful cushion,
Speaker 1: she had read about retreats, and teachers traditions, She had
Speaker 1: bookmarked guided meditations, she had asked friends for recommendations, and
Speaker 1: every morning she would wake up and tell herself, Today,
Speaker 1: when I am less tired, when the house is less loud,
Speaker 1: when I have caught up on everything, when the children
Speaker 1: are older, when I have finally resolved the thing I
Speaker 1: have been carrying, when I am somehow the right kind
Speaker 1: of person, to sit down and be still. And she
Speaker 1: never sat down, not because she was lazy, not because
Speaker 1: she did not care, not because meditation was unimportant to her,
Speaker 1: but because the first of herself that was allowed to
Speaker 1: begin did not yet exist. She was waiting for herself.
Speaker 1: She had not yet met to give her permission. I
Speaker 1: think a lot of us are doing something similar. We
Speaker 1: are waiting for a self we have not yet become,
Speaker 1: to give us the green light to start. We are
Speaker 1: waiting to feel settled before we settle in. We are
Speaker 1: waiting to feel whole before we begin the small, gentle
Speaker 1: practice of coming home to ourselves. We are waiting to
Speaker 1: feel peaceful before we allow ourselves a practice of peace.
Speaker 1: And the truth is, friend, that self is not coming,
Speaker 1: not in the form we imagine a finished, polished version
Speaker 1: of who we will one day be. The self that
Speaker 1: begins is the one that is here now, tired, uncertain,
Speaker 1: a little tent, still in the middle of becoming, still
Speaker 1: carrying things she has not put down yet, still figuring
Speaker 1: out what she is figuring out. That self is the
Speaker 1: only one who can begin, and that self is already here.
Speaker 1: There is a kind of permission that only you can
Speaker 1: give yourself. And it is not the dramatic permission of
Speaker 1: a grand declaration. It is not the kind of permission
Speaker 1: that requires you to stand up and announce your intentions
Speaker 1: to the world. It is the quieter one, the permission
Speaker 1: to begin small, the permission to begin imperfectly, the permission
Speaker 1: to begin before you are ready. Because readiness, i think,
Speaker 1: is a story we tell ourselves about a future self
Speaker 1: who will be more deserving of our own care. We
Speaker 1: imagine a future version of ourselves who has finally caught up,
Speaker 1: who has finally healed enough, who has finally put the
Speaker 1: hard things down, who has finally become the kind of
Speaker 1: person who can be trusted with a fresh beginning. And
Speaker 1: then we wait for that self to arrive. And this
Speaker 1: story is a kind of love. It is the wish
Speaker 1: to give our own future a kind of grace, but
Speaker 1: it is also a kind of postponement. It is a
Speaker 1: way of holding our own beginning at arm's length, waiting
Speaker 1: for a condition that we will never quite meet, because
Speaker 1: the conditions never end. There's always one more thing to finish,
Speaker 1: one more thing to figure out, one our way. We
Speaker 1: are not yet enough. The quieter truth is that you
Speaker 1: do not need to meet a condition. You do not
Speaker 1: need to become a certain kind of person before you
Speaker 1: are allowed to start. You are already the kind of
Speaker 1: person whose small, gentle acts of beginning are worthy. Your
Speaker 1: tired beginning is a beginning. Your uncertain beginning is a beginning.
Speaker 1: Your beginning at the wrong time of day, in the
Speaker 1: wrong mood, in the wrong season of your life. That
Speaker 1: is a beginning. To begin does not require the right thing.
Speaker 1: Container beginning only requires the willingness to begin. So here
Speaker 1: is this small practice I want to offer you this week.
Speaker 1: It is not a complicated practice. It is, in fact,
Speaker 1: almost embarrassingly simple, and I think that is part of
Speaker 1: why it works. Because complicated practices give us a way
Speaker 1: to postpone. Simple practices give us only ourselves and the
Speaker 1: moment we are in each morning. For the next seven mornings,
Speaker 1: I want to invite you to give yourself one small permission,
Speaker 1: just one, the permission to begin one thing, one tiny
Speaker 1: thing that you have been waiting to begin. It might
Speaker 1: be the permission to drink your coffee without looking at
Speaker 1: your phone. It might be the permission to take a
Speaker 1: five minute walk before you open your email. It might
Speaker 1: be the permission to write one sentence in the journal
Speaker 1: that has been waiting on your nightstand for months. It
Speaker 1: might be the permission to step outside and feel the
Speaker 1: air on your face before you begin the day. It
Speaker 1: might be the permission to rest for ten minutes without
Speaker 1: earning it first. It might be the permission to begin
Speaker 1: the conversation you have been postponing. It might be the
Speaker 1: permission to say the small true thing you have been
Speaker 1: holding back. Whatever it is for you, name it the
Speaker 1: night before, whisper it to yourself as you are falling asleep.
Speaker 1: Let it settle into your body as a small, gentle intention.
Speaker 1: And the next morning, before the day takes over, give
Speaker 1: yourself that one permission to do small thing. Let it
Speaker 1: be small, let it be imperfect, let it be enough.
Speaker 1: And at the end of the seven mornings, notice what
Speaker 1: has shifted. Notice how the small permission of one day
Speaker 1: becomes the small permission of another. Notice how beginning small
Speaker 1: again and again loosens something inside you. Notice how you
Speaker 1: stop waiting for the self who is finally ready, and
Speaker 1: you start being the self who is here beginning. Notice
Speaker 1: how the waiting becomes smaller. Notice how the beginning becomes
Speaker 1: more possible. I want to leave you with this. There
Speaker 1: is a sentence I have been carrying my pocket for months.
Speaker 1: I do not remember exactly where I first heard it.
Speaker 1: I think it was a teacher, or maybe a friend,
Speaker 1: or maybe the kind of stranger who says the exact
Speaker 1: right thing at the exact right moment and then disappears
Speaker 1: into the rest of their day. The sentence is this
Speaker 1: the version of you who begins. It's not the version
Speaker 1: of you who has arrived. The version of you who
Speaker 1: begins is the one who is right now willing to
Speaker 1: be a beginner again. That is the permission, That is
Speaker 1: the whole invitation. To be willing to be a beginner again,
Speaker 1: To be willing to start before you know what you
Speaker 1: are doing, To be willing to try something small and
Speaker 1: imperfect and real, to be willing to let the beginning,
Speaker 1: be a beginning without demanding that it also be polished
Speaker 1: or finished or impressive. You do not have to be
Speaker 1: a person who has it all together. You only have
Speaker 1: to be a person who is willing to begin. And
Speaker 1: you are You already are right now, as you are,
Speaker 1: as you are listening, as you are, still in the
Speaker 1: middle of your own unfinished becoming. The you who is
Speaker 1: listening right now is the you who can begin, not
Speaker 1: some future, more complete version of you. This one, tired
Speaker 1: and tender and a little uncertain, This one is enough.
Speaker 1: I want to thank you for being here today, for
Speaker 1: spending these twenty minutes with me. I hope you will
Speaker 1: carry the small permission with you into the week. I
Speaker 1: hope when you find yourself waiting for the right moment
Speaker 1: to begin something tender, you will remember the right moment
Speaker 1: is this one. The right self is this one. You
Speaker 1: are already ready. You just have not given yourself the
Speaker 1: permission yet. And the permission, friend, is yours to give.
Speaker 1: No one else can give it to you, no condition
Speaker 1: can earn it for you. It is already yours, It
Speaker 1: has always been yours. It is the small, quiet gift
Speaker 1: of your own willingness. Take a breath with me, friend,
Speaker 1: A slow one in through the nose, letting the air
Speaker 1: fill the bottom of your lungs first, letting it rise
Speaker 1: gently the way away rises, And a long, soft one
Speaker 1: out through the mouth, letting the breath go slowly, like
Speaker 1: a tide withdrawing from a quiet shore. And as she
Speaker 1: breathe out, let yourself begin. Let yourself begin one small
Speaker 1: thing right here, right now, not because you are ready,
Speaker 1: but because you are willing until next time. Friend, be
Speaker 1: gentle with yourself. The beginning does not have to be
Speaker 1: loud to be real. It does not have to be
Speaker 1: perfect to be worthy. It does not have to be
Speaker 1: finished to be yours. Rest well, begin gently, and trust
Speaker 1: that the small beginning is enough.