“In today’s rush we all think too much, seek too much, want too much, and forget about the joy of just Being.”
— Eckhart Tolle
Bobbie Jonas
The Body Detective
I have spent a considerable part of my life trying to pull both feet out of my mouth.
As time went on, perhaps it became only one foot. These days, I like to think it might be half a foot.
Progress. Though I’m keeping the shoehorn handy.
I have been practising stillness and learning to be less reactive for years. Both have required tremendous effort on my part. Recently, I have begun to appreciate something that sounds so small it hardly seems worthy of all this attention.
The pause.
Pause is huge.
It is that moment when I have something to say—and allow a little time before saying it. Sometimes I discover that the other person hasn’t finished. Sometimes what they say next answers the question I was about to ask.
Occasionally, my brilliant contribution turns out to be entirely unnecessary. A discovery I try to receive gracefully.
You would think that remembering to pause would be simple. Yet I sometimes feel I need stickies around the house and office to remind my brain.
“Listen.”
“Wait.”
“They’re still talking.”
Inside my head, the instruction can be rather less diplomatic.
“Shut up.”
I say this with affection. Mostly.
But I am beginning to notice how much kindness matters here. If every attempt to become more patient involves telling myself off for being impatient, it can become quite an exhausting conversation.
Could I give myself a moment without making myself wrong for needing one?
In my practice as The Body Detective, pausing is part of how I listen. Someone tells me what they are experiencing. I notice something as we work together. There may be a question to ask, or something to explore.
Can I stay curious a little longer?
There is patience involved in allowing myself not to know yet. I may have experience to draw on, but I am meeting this person, in this moment. I want to leave room for what they have to tell me.
I recognise something similar in writing and art. Ideas arrive, sometimes several at once, and the inner critic is often happy to join them without an invitation.
“Where is this going?”
“Is that any good?”
“Surely you can do better than that.”
Such enthusiasm. If only it would help with the washing-up.
The noise has become quieter over time. I am learning to let an idea exist for a while before asking it to explain itself. Some thoughts need a little wandering room. I seem to need that too.
And I wonder what happens in my body during a pause.
Am I holding my breath while preparing to speak? Have my shoulders crept upwards? What might I notice if I give myself a moment?
I don’t always remember to ask. Sometimes I remember afterwards, when the foot is already in position.
Perhaps that moment deserves kindness too.
Molly, of course, gives me plenty of opportunities to observe patience in action. Hers.
She allows me to spout off while looking at me with angelic kindness. I can only imagine what she thinks, but she has the good manners to keep it to herself. Both paws firmly out of her mouth.
And somewhere in the middle of all my carrying on, I notice her. There is my pause.
In that moment, I find my way back to gentle kindness—with her, and with myself too.
I am still practising. Still interrupting occasionally. Still discovering that listening can take more patience than speaking, particularly when I’m quite excited about what I have to say.
But more often now, there is a small space in which I can wait, wonder, and allow myself not to know.
Where in your day might you welcome a pause—and what would a kind reminder sound like?
Shall we have a cuppa? I’m practising taking a pause. You’re very welcome to join me.
With Love,
Bobbie xo
