Dawn on Idle Runway

Sometimes the loudest journey is the one that never leaves the living room.

This morning, sunlight pooled gently through the blinds while Bernie delivered her wake-up hug—fifty warm, insistent pounds of love and routine. The suitcase in the closet stayed untouched, its zipper still sealed, content to dream of a long distance roadtrip without demanding departure.

We live in a culture that treats movement as proof of life. The more places you’ve been, the more stories you can tell; the more your schedule overflows, the more legitimate your existence appears. But coherence measures something different. Vitality, not velocity. Systems—whether servers, soil, or people—require rest to function well. Stillness is not absence; it’s maintenance.

The guilt that creeps in when I slow down isn’t mine by birth—it’s been scripted. The pressure to prove I’m “making the most” of my time off. The marketing of urgency disguised as opportunity. The subtle competition of comparing my quiet week to someone else’s grand itinerary. But when I name these patterns for what they are, their grip loosens. The static begins to clear.

Lately, my slow-and-steady mandate—better sleep, steady walks, stable glucose—has been my quiet rebellion against the myth that faster is always better. This week is a deliberate pause, a battery swap before the next stretch of work. Choosing rest is not stepping out of the flow—it’s ensuring I have the strength to keep moving in alignment.

Even in stillness, there are small adventures. A sunrise loop at Easter Lake with Angie and Bernie. A day without screens, the turntable spinning vinyl into the quiet. Novelty doesn’t have to be loud to be felt.

Coherenceism teaches that resonance comes before reach. If I want my work, my writing, my conversations to carry weight, they have to come from a place of clarity. This pause is part of the signal—strengthening it before it’s sent.

The suitcase can wait. The system is rebooting.