When I first learned of the Well Keepers and was invited to join, circumstances of my daily life were very different. I felt well-resourced to contribute, and chose my day–an auspicious day indeed, for many–with excitement, quietly thrilled to reflect on the meaning often attached to October 31st (at least in my part of the world). I’ll talk later about some of the thoughts I already had swirling in my head much later today. It will be with some effort that I bring them to the surface again, as circumstances have changed greatly for me since then.

I am no longer well-resourced. I am no longer safely rooted in my home, surrounded by my comforts, my supports, my friends and found family. However, I was determined to follow through on my commitment here, and I think it’s taught me something about the essence of our venture here. So I’m going to talk about that first.

Chaos, noise, and frantic energy exist all around us. We know that; we live that. The very notion of setting aside time and intention to tend the Well is evidence of that awareness, and emphasizes that need. But awareness isn’t the same as experience.

Shortly after I joined and chose my day, life threw a radical change my way: my parents were both hospitalized under different circumstances, their local support network failed them, and a plea from my father (a stubborn man who only reluctantly seeks aid) found me, asking me to help. I answered, and found myself on a month-long support mission across the country to help them, removed from my own support systems (bar one very important lifeline: my dog, Odyssey).

I have since been able to reflect on the Well only briefly, in moments stolen amid the maelstrom. I am deeply thankful for the words and images shared by others during this month, digested in small snippets that have helped to tether me to safety. All the while, though, I have wondered how I can possibly do my part on my day, to close out the month with the same intention and energy. I cannot travel anywhere with spectacular vistas; I cannot take a hike (it is a struggle just to walk Odyssey regularly); I cannot even find time to sit in serenity. All is noise, relentless tasks, swirling obligation.

But I think I know how I can honor the Well.

Maybe this will be contentious, but I think the deep secret of the Well is that there isn’t ever any real stillness or silence. Life is motion, life is noise, and life is–perhaps inevitably–chaotic. But by bringing an approximation of silence and stillness to our inner selves, it makes the noise more…differentiated. Nuanced. Elegant. The world doesn’t get still, but by fixing ourselves into a point of clarity and observation–by contributing as minimally as we can to the soundscape and the tapestry of ceaseless activity–we open ourselves to witnessing so much more of it.

I suspect a lot of you (or most of you!) already understood that, or something like it in different words, but the turmoil of my situation finally made it clear to me. I have had to exist as the anchoring point for my family this month. I have had to be the point of stillness that can bring a bit of harmony to the noise around me (incompletely, alas). I have tried to live an example of what can come of pausing, of listening, and of choosing action and intent more mindfully. It is not a very big well, the one I’ve been tending this month, but it is an important one. And a challenging one.

Today I am trying to channel my intent to marry this small, tumultuous pool to the larger Well; to guide microcosm to macrocosm. Because the world can be very chaotic and scary and loud, too. It’ll never be still or silent, but maybe we can keep guiding it, softening it, and harmonizing with it. 

I don’t know how well this will work out. I don’t know how large I can make my perceptual container, but I hold out hope it will be enough.

In lieu of a beautiful picture of nature, I instead offer a picture of Odyssey. If any being can embody both ceaseless action and pauses of absolute stillness, he can.