Finding Stillness in a Restless Mind

The body receives what the mind perceives

As I sat there, a wave of tranquillity washed over me — gentle yet powerful, like the soft hush of wind through ancient trees. It reminded me of what Shifu was trying to find in Kung Fu Panda 4 — that elusive, perfect stillness. He tried so hard, grasped for it again and again, but something always got in the way. Yet here I was… and somehow, I had found it. Not through striving, but through stillness. Not by chasing, but by sitting. It was just there, waiting for me, under the vastness of the mountains that loomed above.

They were intimidating. They were beautiful. And they were anchoring.

I had never expected the mountains to give me this. I’d always thought they’d be dull — grey slabs of rock best suited for people who loved hiking boots and thermals. I craved stimulation, colour, and noise. Cities pulsed with life; they mirrored my own restlessness. And yet… here I was, in the quiet garden of our wooden lodge, just a kilometre from the most breathtaking peaks I had ever laid eyes on — and something in me cracked open.

It felt emotional. It felt transformative. It felt like a spiritual awakening.

I breathed in the crisp mountain air and let it settle into my chest, my bones, my soul. For the first time in my life, I understood what inner peace actually meant — not just the absence of stress, but the presence of stillness. Real stillness. The kind that whispers: You don’t need to do anything else. You are enough. This moment is enough.

The things that usually consumed me—emails, comparisons, petty frustrations—melted into irrelevance. I saw, with startling clarity, how small I was. How small everything was. One day I’ll be gone, and so will my anxieties, my worries, even my name. But these mountains… they will remain. Stoic. Towering. Timeless. And that thought didn’t make me feel insignificant—it made me feel free.

I remember thinking: I could leave it all behind. A little house tucked in a valley. Days spent painting, walking, growing vegetables and wildflowers. A tiny shop with handmade things and modest earnings. A quiet, simple life. A good life.

But then came the ache—the honest, aching truth. I would miss the vibrancy, the unpredictability. I would miss cafés, the chatter of strangers, the heartbeat of city streets. And part of me wondered, would I really belong here? Would these mountains ever accept me as one of their own?

And yet… I don’t need to live in the mountains to carry them with me.

That feeling—of awe, of stillness, of clarity—that lives inside me now. I can return to it whenever the world feels too much. I can close my eyes and remember the quiet garden, the wind brushing my skin, the soft presence of something greater than myself. I can cultivate that peace, because it wasn’t the mountains that created it—it was me. The mountains simply helped me remember.

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Kranjska gora