The Quiet
The wind has stopped now. Finally.
For six days it battered the hills. Not weather... people. Problems. Demands that dress themselves in urgency, whispering you’re the only one who can stop the burn. And maybe you are. But after a while, even the strongest hand trembles from holding too much water.
This morning, there is stillness. The kind that unsettles men addicted to motion. But I know better. Stillness is not the absence of threat. It’s the moment between the sword being lifted and the strike landing.
So I sit.
Not to rest. Not to meditate. To listen.
The soil is soft from the storm. My boots sink deeper than usual. The field around me, once scorched by exhaustion, is breathing again. Slowly. Quietly. As if testing whether peace is permanent this time. It won’t be. But that’s not the point.
The point is this: Nothing grows during the noise.
The deal, the pitch, the battle, the fire... none of it regenerates what the operator loses in the storm. The only thing that does? Silence. Not as escape, but as return. A reconnection to the only thing that doesn’t lie: consequence.
What remains after the campaign, the fight, the breakdown, the push... is who you really are.
So, I ask myself the same question I ask everyone else: “What still feels true, now?"
And in that moment, I see it.
The map was never the strategy. The deal was never the point. The business was never the work.
The work… was holding the line, when no one else would.
The storm will come again.
But today, I bury the ash, plant the next seed, and nod to the sky.
Move.
There is work that won’t do itself.
PS - Don't forget to breathe today.
B