Facts vs Fiction

Stillness and Intentionality

I have been learning the difference between a fact and what I add to it.

It started small. Bronchitis, healing slower than I wanted. The thought arrived before I asked for it: maybe it's time to retire. I caught it — one true thing wearing another thing's clothes. The body was tired. That was all. The rest I had built myself.

Then a podcast, moving like a turtle. Maybe this isn't meant for me. Maybe I'm ahead of God's timing. Maybe I don't have the capacity. Four verdicts, arrived at in one breath, none of them asked for. I have learned to notice how fast they come. Speed is a clue. What settles slowly tends to be truer than what arrives already certain.

I went looking for evidence, because I wanted to be honest rather than comforted. I found a real memory — a project once, that I stopped driving, that eventually stopped happening. So maybe the fear was right. Maybe not-driving-it is what kills a thing.

But looking closer, I saw what actually happened. That project had one thread and no others — one format, one kind of speaker, nothing to hold it up if that thread thinned. It didn't end because I let go of it. It ended because it was never built to hold more than one hand.

What I am building now has many hands. Classes. Workshops. A podcast. A community wider than the room. The fear had matched the wrong pattern to the wrong shape.

So I asked a truer question. Not should I drive this, but where does my own energy already want to go. And the answer was smaller and clearer than I expected: I want to interview. I want to facilitate the digital space. That is what stays lit when I imagine it. Everything else I have been carrying was never mine to hold.

This is what I mean now when I say I am moving from stillness. Not stillness as the opposite of motion — stillness as the ground I move from. And intentionality is the sieve: does this relationship, this task, this community energize, or does it deplete. That is the only question I trust anymore, because it doesn't arrive in a spike. It has to be asked slowly, from a settled place, or it isn't the real question at all.

Selah stays mine — the room where nothing has to produce anything. For the rest, I show up as interviewer, as facilitator. Not as the one who must drive everything, or the one who must retreat from everything. Just the one who noticed, finally, which parts were actually hers to carry.