Sacred Pause

The world moves fast. Faster and faster. It's hard to keep up with the daily demands, with the puffing smoke of notions that race our wheels through the streets of life.

I remember summers on the street I grew up on in the suburbs. Kick the can, hide and seek, tossing a football to a friend running a button hook, driveway basketball where the hoop hung above the garage, nailed up by someone's dad. Summers were hot, and we swam for hours, and it all slipped by in a slow blur. But there was no rush. No race to the next moment. No anxiety about the next day. Future-dwelling wasn’t part of the experience.

I get it—we grow up. Life makes demands. Its requests often feel insurmountable. Obligations cast a wide net, gnashing and clawing, scraping at our attention. The luxury of wandering through a summer day and returning home at dusk, when the streetlights flicker on, feels like nostalgia. Now it’s dinner on the table, kids to bed, ourselves to bed—or not to bed early enough—half-watching something someone at work told us to stream. Because, supposedly, it’s “really, really good.”

The other week, I sat in my busted recliner to read—my rebellion against the scroll. I make time for reading. It entertains, enriches, and satisfies a quiet longing. I wanted to read like I did in my twenties, before cell phones and all the other bullshit.

My ever-growing book stack rests on a brown wooden bookcase beside me. The lamp casts its warm yellow hue over the corner of the room where I end most nights. The cat crunched through her dry food. TV flickered in windows across the street. A car engine idled outside.

And there I was—racing through a chapter.
My chest tightened.

I wanted to get to the next chapter. The next book. The next stack. The next destination. To skip fandango to some promised land, some nirvana, some laser-tag joy of arrival.

But I’ve been here before. I know this version of me—rushing forward, unconsciously, relentlessly. Sometimes I see it. Sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I ignore it and keep moving.

I’ve meditated on death. I’ve imagined its arrival. I’ve counted the summers I might have left. Middle age will do that.

That night, the tension raked across my chest. And I thought: Something’s gotta give.

Now, today, I’m working on slowing down.
I’m learning to live in the space between things.

The space between thoughts.
Between obligations.
Between touch and climax.
The pause between the breath in and the breath out.

A sacred pause.

It started like this:

The next morning, I woke up knowing that action is king. So I sat at my desk and looked out the window.

I saw the bird on the wire.
The heavy man across the street smoking, like every morning. I muttered hello from a distance.
A man got into his car, started the engine, adjusted his stereo, drove off.
A young blonde walked a tiny Paris Hilton dog past the hedge.

I sipped my coffee. I opened my book.
I read a paragraph.
I read it again.
I read a single sentence.
I looked up the word numinous.
I reread the paragraph.
I looked out the window and thought about meaning.

The crow on the wire met my gaze.
We breathed together in the quiet.
Then I read the next line.
And the next.

I eased into the morning.
I eased into the day.

And for three weeks now, I’ve been pausing when needed. Breathing. Remembering the space in between—where life really happens.

The sacred pause slows it all down, man. Slows it down.

If you're feeling the need to slow down—

If you’re ready to reclaim space,
maybe you’d like to pick up a book that invites stillness.

Here are three I recommend—each one is available at Moon Gaze Books, or wherever you find your reads:

New Seeds of Contemplation by Thomas Merton
A profound collection of essays exploring spirituality, stillness, and the contemplative life. Merton invites us to rediscover inner space.

Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer
A beautiful blend of science, Indigenous wisdom, and poetic storytelling. A book that refuses to be rushed.

Stoner by John Williams
A quiet, exquisite novel about the life of an unremarkable man. Subtle, slow, and unforgettable.

Until next time—read slowly.
Breathe deeply.
And honor the sacred pause.

—
Moon Gaze Books
Books for the reflective, the curious, and the quietly rebellious—slowly growing, one breath at a time.