The first time I remember finding it was New Year’s Eve 2013, at a place my friends called “The Jacks.” The Jacks, as I would come to learn (and love), was a sort of concrete pier down at the harbor. Over twenty feet wide, It jutted out into the water, extending from the nearby shore. Together with its twin, another blockade opposite, they enclosed a portion beach next to the main docks. A small inlet separated the two piers, just wide enough for a boat to pass through. The Jacks, the pier’s namesake, were 12-foot wide molds of the children’s toy, blown up to a giant’s scale and coated in thick concrete. Two people might just barely get their arms around the thick spikes. Held together only by friction, the concrete stars piled on each other from the floor of the ocean to well above my head, surrounding an inner walkway. The hoard of jacks, placed almost haphazardly, created caverns and archways between their thick arms. The adventuring teenager could spend hours climbing and exploring the entanglement. Which, of course, was why we had come. 

Clambering up to the walkway, it was a straight walk out into the water. Crisscrossing paths running up and down the pier created a grid of deep pockets dotting the walkway. I had to be careful in the dark not to fall in and twist an ankle — a mistake made on a future trip. As we made out way towards the end of the pier, the walkway suddenly dropped off. A flat wall fell down onto a path circling a hole down into concrete caverns and the ocean below. Just on the other side of the opening stood a small structure, about the size of an outhouse. Above it, a little red light guided the amateur sailor or paddler through the mouth, and out into open water.

After exploring for a bit with my friends, I went off on my own. Waiting for the fireworks to start. Climbing out onto the last of the jacks, beyond the end of the walkway, I sat alone and took in the view. To my right was the harbor, the beach, and the neighborhoods extending up the hill and into a valley. On the left was the open ocean, reaching far out into the horizon, black and calm. Up from the expanse came the stars, scoffing at the dim lights of the town below, no light pollution to blot them out here. Gazing out onto this sight, listening to the water lapping at the concrete below, I felt an utter calm. Clarity of mind and a feeling of connectedness rushed over me. Everything else was falling away. What became prominent at that moment was my relationship to the world around me. For the first time, I was experiencing the necessity and power of being still. 

The ancient Stoics called this feeling Sympatheia. A deep and unwavering connection between nature and ourselves. It rests on the idea that we are a part of nature, that everyone and everything together moves as a single organism. It sounds a little melodramatic, but it was in these moments of connection that the philosophers centered themselves and found fulfillment in their place and life.

Stillness and the concept of Sympathiea go hand in hand. The connectedness and the clarity we seek, often unconsciously, can only be found when we have a clear mind. Put another way, our identity is hinged on how we relate to the world. What, after all, are we putting ourselves to work for? In those moments of stillness, we discover the more profound, intrinsic reasons for our work and our passion. But often, especially in the high energy, breakneck pace of today, this stillness and the clarity behind it, become lost in the superficial rush.

To regain that fulfillment, we need to step away from the distractions: the phone, social media, even our own ego. All of these things that take up our time and mental energy only hold us back. We have tricked ourselves into believing that the superficial connections of today will give rise to the fulfillment we are after. Or, even worse, we have forgotten or forsaken our clarity of purpose to serve our ego, our bank account, or whatever other vain measurements we hide behind. The only way to seek meaning and clarity is to dig deeper into ourselves. We won’t find it in our phones or superficial pursuits. To search ourselves, we must create space for stillness. When we clean the house and clear away the mess of thoughts, we have a chance to find the clarity of purpose and true connectedness we actually want deep down. 

Stillness, then, is something that must be cultivated. We must find the moments when we can step back from the distractions, or, step out into nature. As Marcus Aurelius wrote in his Meditations, “Meditate often on the interconnectedness and mutual interdependence of all things in the universe. For in a sense, all things are mutually woven together and therefore have an affinity for each other.” As with all things in life, the art of stillness is not one of concept but of choice and action. Go for a walk. Take out the headphones. Put the phone away. Meditate. Practice being here. Practice non-action and presence. It might not be easy at first. Stillness is the most difficult thing for me to face and I struggle with it every day. But as Ryan Holiday, author of stillness is the Key, reminds us, “Be here. Be all of you. Be present. And if you’ve had trouble with this in the past? That’s okay. That’s the nice thing about the present. It keeps showing up to give you a second chance.”

 Clear ideas, clear thoughts, clear actions can only be found by a clear mind. By the connected mind. To forgo the chance at stillness, to give in to distraction is to forget ourselves, and worse, ignore the impact we can have on others. 

By the morning of New Years Day 2014, I had almost completely forgotten about the feeling I had stumbled on the night before. I hadn’t grasped what was behind that feeling of stillness. So it slipped way. Swallowed up by a career path, I desperately chased after, not fully understanding why. I couldn’t see then, how important it was to take time to be still. I didn’t know that the clarity I was after was behind it all. 

This past October, with some spare time before work, I went for a walk. Aimlessly wandering, lost in the cacophony of my head, I found myself sitting under a tree in Boston’s Public Gardens, looking out over the pond. To my left, under the next tree over, a musician played the trombone, improvising over a jazz tune playing softly from his phone. To my right, a family sat at the edge of the pond. The father was taking a picture of mother and son. In a rush, I felt it. The stillness I had left behind. Forgotten, or traded for distraction and purposeless ambition.

After a few moments, I took out my journal and wrote.

 ‘I’m sitting in the gardens under a tree. There are people everywhere, enjoying the fall. Families taking pictures. There’s a boy softly playing the trombone under the tree next to me. 

I didn’t know I needed this. How long has it been since I’ve just been here? I didn’t know I had been starved of stillness.’

Seek stillness, crave it, and practice it. The cost of losing ourselves is too high to let it go.