I’ve taken to staring at the ceiling lately.

There is not a time I can remember staring at the ceiling so much. I don’t think I ever had time to sit and let my mind wander. I always had a bus to catch or task to complete. I never had an ample amount of time to be completely still. To not think about the next step. I’ve never allowed myself to just be.

That’s when the ideas have been coming.

The stark whiteness of the ceiling fills my vision. I study the intricate holes and tiny mounds of old paint that are above me. The lights and the smoke detector. Then my story flows through me and I watch the words and characters dance. I talk it out with them silently, moving the parts around like puzzle pieces until they fit. I feel like I am having my own A Beautiful Mind moment, working out the problems with my brain and imaginary friends.

It is fairly commonplace to have ideas sprout when you’re in the shower, driving, attempting to fall asleep at night. All of those still happen to me. Lately there has been a shift where my body and mind find stillness and the pulse of my story finds me and quickens. It is though it had been waiting for me to stop moving so it can pin me down.

Staring at the ceiling has been a strange comfort to me. It reminds me of lying on my back on the grass and watching the clouds. It is a freeing sensation. It is wonderful to feel boundless as I lie still, with no where to be and nothing to think about it. As an anxious person, this is a relief that I can not put into words. My body is not tense or tingling or aching with the weight of my fears. My racing mind is quiet, soft, open.

I get frustrated when I am sitting at my desk and willing the ideas to come. Commanding them, really. And they don’t, the stubborn things. I was working on a chapter yesterday that was giving me trouble. I deleted and wrote and deleted and wrote. This one section wasn’t working, wasn’t fitting. I stepped away and did some yoga and after savasana, I stayed on the floor and just stared above me. I didn’t ask the ideas to come. I lay there, quiet, knowing I had plenty of time to remain there.

The ideas did come. I fixed the chapter.

I had worried this habit was dangerous and my body shutting down. I thought it was a sign telling me I was stretched too thin. And maybe it was. But now I look forward to the moments of stillness I find throughout the day. I get lost and wander around in my imagination. I find corners I didn’t realize were there and linger in them, discovering the treasures they hold.

Stillness gets a bad rap. We are conditioned to be busy, to be active. Always moving, always striving. Being still is the opposite of that. Being still means you have time to rest when you should be working yourself to the bone and suffering for your art.

Being still has actually made my work better. Being still has allowed my imagination to work freely instead of being forced into submission.

Being still surprisingly works.