The Mirror of stillness

There is a solemn truth that visits a man when life slows down. It does not arrive with fanfare or crisis, but in the quiet exhale after a long struggle. It comes when you are at your lowest, when forward movement stops and the noise of the world finally fades into a distant hum. That is the moment, in the unsettling quiet, when you finally begin to look around and truly see. Your vision sharpens, not on the horizon you were chasing, but on the ground you are standing on. You see the path behind you, littered with the artifacts of your choices. You see the road ahead, shrouded in mist. And you see what is beside you, the people and principles standing with you in the stillness. Everything feels amplified in this space. Your victories seem smaller, your failures more instructive, your unfinished thoughts louder than any shouted argument. Stillness has a way of turning ordinary moments into mirrors, and a man must possess a certain courage to look into them without flinching.

The longer you remain in that silent space, the more a fundamental realization dawns: growth is not a destination you arrive at, but a current you learn to swim in. It never ends. This reflection births a new awareness, a sensitivity to the subtle rhythms of your own life. And from that awareness, perspective is born. You begin to understand, in your bones, that wisdom is not found in speed, in the frantic rush to the next milestone. It is found in seeing. In really seeing what your life, in its successes and its stumbles, has been trying to tell you all along. The universe whispers to us constantly, but we are often too busy shouting over it to hear.

I have always been a thinker, as I am sure many of you are. My reality is not unique. Struggle is the common thread in the human tapestry. But my way of framing it, of weaving story into struggle and extracting meaning from the mundane, is what makes the journey mine. Growing up in the inner city was no prize, but neither am I seeking one. I am not asking for sympathy or a medal for survival. I am simply stating a fact, a foundational layer of my understanding. Being Christian, for me, is not a badge of honor to be worn for social approval. It is a way of surrendering to something infinitely greater than myself, while still wrestling daily with the poverty of the mind that so often surrounds you in environments of lack. It is a tension, a sacred struggle between faith and the tangible facts of a difficult reality.

And this leads me to a core belief, forged in that tension: there is no poverty deeper than ignorance. Not the ignorance of book learning, but the ignorance of self. The ignorance that does not know it is poor. The ignorance that is content with a small world, that fears new ideas, that mistakes its own limited view for the entire horizon. This kind of poverty is a cage with an open door, and the tragedy is that the person inside does not even know they are trapped. They will defend the walls of their cage, believing they are defending their home.

I remember a conversation from my youth that carved this truth into my spirit. I was in high school, full of the fire of curiosity and the unshakable conviction of a young man who has just discovered the power of ideas. I found myself in a debate with an older man, a figure I respected, about the simple geographic and political fact that Jamaica is both an island and a country. He insisted, with the full weight of his authority, that it was only an island. I was baffled. I tried to reason, to gently explain the distinction between a landform and a sovereign nation. I tried to offer clarity, to build a bridge of understanding from my mind to his. But my effort was met with laughter and dismissal. My facts were not just rejected; they were treated as an personal affront, a child’s impertinence.

I walked away from that encounter with two lessons that have shaped every interaction since. The first was this: never offer understanding to those who are not ready to receive it. To do so is to cast pearls before swine, as the scripture says. They will not thank you for the gift of clarity; they will instead mistake your help for pride, your knowledge for arrogance. You cannot force a man to drink from a well he believes is poisoned. The second lesson was just as vital: every opinion has value, even when it is flatly wrong. As an observer, you can learn from both ignorance and insight. You can learn what to avoid, what paths lead to closed minds, and how to better recognize those who are truly seeking truth. You can study the anatomy of a closed door so you know better how to find an open one. But this learning is only possible if you possess the discipline to remain silent enough to listen. Not to listen for a chance to reply, but to listen to understand the very structure of another person’s worldview. In that understanding, you find not agreement, but a far greater power: discernment.

And so I return to the silence, the solemn truth that started this all. It is in this quiet space that the noise of foolish arguments fades. It is here that the mirrors of self awareness become clear. It is here that a man can finally separate the poverty of circumstance from the poverty of spirit, and choose, with intention, to fight the one that truly matters.

Oneness in Progress

I Am Bekelé