Welcome to Still Point 12:10 my friend where we pause together to breathe, reset, and rise. 
Please click on the YouTube symbol to listen to the full Still Point rhythm including the meditation to begin.
Today we gather just before Transfiguration —
a threshold moment in the life of Jesus
and in the life of the disciples.
Before light breaks open,
before clarity is given,
Jesus asks a question.
And it is not a question of doctrine.
It is a question of orientation.
So today we will begin gently.
No forcing.
No fixing.
Just presence
So much of our lives are lived slightly ahead of ourselves.
Thinking forward.
Planning.
Anticipating.
Holding things together.
Even when we rest, part of us stays alert —
listening for what might be required next.
So let this be a different kind of moment.
Not a moment of improvement.
Not a moment of clarity.
Just a moment of honest pause.
Notice how your body is holding itself right now.
Where there is tension.
Where there is effort.
Where there is a quiet readiness that never fully turns off.
Many of us have learned to live this way for a long time.
Being the dependable one.
The strong one.
The one who figures it out.
The one who keeps things from falling apart.
This way of living doesn’t begin as a problem.
It begins as care.
As responsibility.
As love.
But over time, it can quietly become the center of everything.
Effort becomes the organizing principle of life.
Holding becomes the default posture.
Rest becomes something we schedule,
rather than something we trust.
And yet, before there was effort,
there was breath.
Before there was responsibility,
there was Presence.
Before you learned to hold everything together,
you were already being held.
So let’s pause here and notice —
not what you believe,
not what you value,
but what has actually been shaping your days.
What have you been carrying without question?
What have you assumed must be held together by you?
What responsibility has slowly expanded until it fills every space?
There is no need to judge this.
No need to fix it.
Just notice.
Notice how it feels in your body
to always be slightly braced.
To always be ready.
To always be available.
This kind of tiredness doesn’t come from one hard season.
It comes from a long pattern of effort.
And when effort becomes the center,
something quieter gets pushed to the edges.
A deeper steadiness.
A slower wisdom.
A Presence that does not strain.
The One Jesus trusted did not rush him.
Did not demand performance.
Did not measure worth by output.
Again and again, he stepped away.
Up a hill.
Into silence.
Into the wilderness.
Not to escape the world —
but to remember where his center truly was.
He did not live from urgency.
He lived from listening.
So let’s ask a gentle question —
not to answer,
just to let it open some space.
Who am I when I stop trying to hold everything together?
If effort softened,
even a little,
what would remain?
This question can feel unsettling.
Because when effort loosens,
uncertainty appears.
We don’t know what will happen next.
We don’t know how things will resolve.
We don’t know what will be asked of us tomorrow.
And we are not very practiced
at resting inside that not-knowing.
But faith has never meant having the answers.
It has meant trusting the light
even before it becomes visible.
Much of life unfolds
before clarity arrives.
Transitions.
Thresholds.
Moments when the old way no longer fits,
and the new way has not yet taken shape.
On the mountain, before the radiance,
there was simply listening.
“This is my Beloved… listen.”
Listening comes before shining.
Stillness comes before revelation.
There is a difference between falling apart
and letting go.
Letting go does not mean giving up.
It means releasing the false center —
the belief that everything depends on your vigilance.
The belief that if you stop,
everything will collapse.
Often, when we stop pushing,
something deeper begins to carry us.
Not dramatically.
Not all at once.
But quietly.
Faithfully.
Steadily.
There is a deeper center beneath effort.
A place that does not rush.
A place that does not perform.
A place that does not demand answers before it allows rest.
This center is not passive.
It is attentive.
It listens.
It waits.
It responds rather than reacts.
It is where the Holy meets the human
without spectacle.
Without strain.
Without noise.
When we live from this place,
we still act.
We still choose.
We still show up.
But we do not do so from panic.
We do not do so from the belief
that we must hold everything alone.
So the invitation here is small.
Not heroic.
Not dramatic.
Just notice what it feels like
to stop managing for a moment.
To let the future remain unfinished.
To let the question stay open.
To let yourself rest
inside the Presence that is already here.
Notice what remains
when the false center loosens its grip.
Perhaps there is more steadiness than you expected.
Perhaps there is more support.
Perhaps there is simply space.
You do not need to solve anything now.
You do not need to decide anything now.
You do not need to become anything now.
Just rest here,
in the pause before clarity.
In the quiet before radiance.
In the stillness where
the Holy is already holding you.
And allow what is truest
to breathe again.
Before we close, we take a few moments for thankfulness.
Not gratitude that pressures us to feel positive.
Not gratitude that asks us to overlook what is hard.
But a quieter thankfulness —
the kind that notices what is already holding us.
You might bring to mind one small thing.
Nothing impressive.
Nothing polished.
Perhaps:
a breath that softened,
a moment of stillness,
the fact that you showed up,
even when it was hard.
Let that awareness rest gently in your body.
If you wish, you might silently say:
Thank you for what steadies me.
Thank you for what remains.
Thank you for this moment of pause.
There is no need to search for more.
What is enough has already arrived.
If this Still Point has offered you something today,
you’re welcome to share it.
Simply as an invitation —
a quiet pause offered to someone else
who might need a moment to breathe.
Stillness shared gently
has a way of finding its way
exactly where it’s needed.
If you’d like to continue these pauses, you’re welcome to subscribe to my YouTube channel and join us again.
As we come to the close of this Still Point, take one final breath.
Inhale gently.
And exhale slowly.
You don’t need to take everything with you.
Just what feels steady.
Just what feels true.
May you move back into your day a little more grounded,
a little more spacious,
a little more at ease in your own life.
Go gently.
Carry what nourishes.
Leave what weighs you down.
As we come to the close of this Still Point, take one final breath.
If this time feels supportive for you, you’re warmly invited to share it with a friend. And remember to …
Breathe.
Reset.
Rise.
Until next time,
walk gently,
listen deeply,
speak gently,
and receive the world
with an open heart and a smile.
Bennach de ort – May God be with you.
