The Dust Came Home

Like grace—it drifts downward...

There are days that arrive like invitations,
even if nothing is written on the envelope.

This was one of them.

No agenda. No urgency.
Just the hush of afternoon light stretching across the room,
across the yard, across my limbs.
And I—finally—let it.
I didn’t reach for my phone.
I didn’t reach for meaning.
I let myself be still.

And in that stillness, I remembered something small but true:
Dust knows how to settle.

It doesn’t need to be told.
It just waits for the air to still.
For the motion to pause.
And then—like grace—it drifts downward,
gently returning to the earth.

It reminded me of an old book—
left open on a table long ago,
its pages yellowed and curved,
lined not only with words but with silence.
Dust had settled there too,
layer by layer, like time remembering itself.
Not forgotten. Just resting.

So many of us live like stirred-up air.
In constant motion.
Responding.
Reacting.
Proving.

But dust—dust remembers.
It trusts that stillness is not nothingness,
but its own kind of restoration.

That’s what the afternoon taught me.
Not through a grand insight.
But through the absence of striving.

I’ve spent so much of my life thinking I needed to earn rest.
That peace was the reward for productivity.
That being still meant falling behind.

But not today.

Today, the sky didn’t demand anything from me.
The trees didn’t mind if I accomplished nothing.
The wind passed through, unconcerned with my to-do list.

And for a moment, I matched the rhythm of the world.
Not as a visitor.
But as something that belonged to it.

I don’t know how long I sat there.
But I do know I rose slower.
Breathed deeper.
And felt no need to define the moment.

Maybe that’s all awakening really is.
Not a bolt of lightning,
but a quiet returning.

To the breath.
To the body.
To the rhythm of a day
that doesn’t need to be conquered—
only received.
⸻

Author’s Note:
This piece is part of my ongoing I AM Awake series on Substack, where I write about the moments that help us return—to ourselves, to silence, to the rhythm of what truly matters. If this resonated with you, feel free to share it, or take a few still moments of your own today.

You are not behind.
You are home.

—Richard