Learning to Sit Still

The hardest thing about a fire gathering isn't the cold, or the dark, or the unfamiliar setting. It's the sitting still. Most of us have forgotten how.

Watch someone arrive at their first gathering. They're restless. Adjusting their seat. Checking their phone. Looking around for something to do, something to engage with. The silence makes them uncomfortable. They fill it with nervous conversation or busywork — poking the fire, fetching more wood, making another cup of tea.

I recognise it because I was the same. My body had been trained by years of city living to always be doing something. Stillness felt like failure. Like wasted time. Like something was wrong.

It usually takes about forty-five minutes. That's the average time before I see someone properly settle. Their shoulders drop. Their breathing changes. They stop looking around and start looking at the fire. Something in them gives up trying to be productive and just... lands.

I'm not romanticising this. It's not always comfortable. Sometimes what comes up in stillness is difficult — the things you've been too busy to feel, the thoughts you've been outrunning. The fire holds space for that too.

But mostly, what I see is relief. The relief of discovering that you can stop. That the world doesn't end. That sitting in the warmth of a fire, watching the flames, listening to the crack of the wood — that this is enough. You don't have to add anything.

Learning to sit still isn't a skill you master. It's a practice you return to. Every gathering, I'm learning it again alongside everyone else.