When you sit in a moment where it feels like nothing is happening, there’s an almost palpable sense of waiting. It’s not an ordinary kind of waiting, though—not the kind where you expect the next thing to come any second now. This waiting stretches out, revealing a vastness that, at first, can feel empty. But the emptiness itself starts to pulse with a kind of presence. And you begin to wonder: Is this pause pointing to something far deeper than just the absence of action?
Take the feeling as far as it can point: into the endless reach of what it means to “wait.” It’s not just time ticking away, it’s the unraveling of time itself. What you think of as waiting is not really about what comes next—it’s about the opening of an immense space. A space where time dissolves, where the boundaries between “now” and “later” fade away. In this unfolding stillness, you begin to realize that the nothing you thought was happening is actually the threshold of something profound.
What is that something? It’s not an event, not a shift in the external world. It’s the realization that even within the nothing, there is everything. You feel the pulse of the moment itself, alive with its own presence. This “happening” isn’t just about action or movement; it’s the sheer fact of existence, humming beneath the surface. It’s the subtle unfolding of what is, right here, right now, stretching endlessly into what we call eternity.
The idea that “happening is always happening” starts to make more sense. It’s not that something always has to move or change. It’s that existence itself is the happening—an endless unfolding that doesn’t need to become something else. It just is. When we feel like nothing is happening, it’s because we’re measuring the moment against expectations. But the moment itself is timeless. It doesn’t fit neatly into the concept of “just now” or “always.” It transcends both.
Now, what about the relationship between “just” and “always”? If you take “just” as meaning small or insignificant, and “always” as infinite or eternal, it feels like they shouldn’t overlap. But what if they aren’t two separate things at all? What if the smallest moment—the “just” of this breath, this blink of an eye—is inseparable from the eternal flow of “always”? Every fleeting second contains, within it, the entire expanse of time. The “just” moment is not trivial—it’s a window into the infinite.
When you feel like nothing makes sense, like you’re lost in the idea of emptiness, that’s when you’re closest to touching the truth of it all. You’re standing at the edge of the mind’s limits, where thoughts and definitions fall away, leaving you with the bare presence of being. What you’re left with is not nothing—it’s the fullness of what lies beyond words, beyond meaning. You are left with the infinite pause, where stillness meets eternity, and where happening is always happening, even when it looks like nothing at all.
