I have been noticing the quiet these days. My body is nine months pregnant, moving in ways that insist on slowing down, on withdrawing from the expectations of productivity, of neat schedules, of linear time. I recently returned from a stretch in nature, and the forest, the waterfalls, the breeze, the smell of wet earth, the birds and snakes and the gentle sway of trees reminded me that time is not only linear, neither universal and that movement is never only human.
There was a moment on that trip—I was sitting near a river. Not doing very much. Or… not doing very much in the ways I have been taught to recognise as “doing”. Water moving. Wind passing through trees. Something shifting in the periphery—maybe a squirrel, maybe just imagination. And there was a pause. Not the kind that sits between things. But the kind that generates on its own pace noticings that invites me to take care with ideas of embodied meanings.
In this slowing, in this immersion, I found myself thinking about my supervision practice, about the spaces I hold for others, and the ethical, political, and relational work that those spaces make possible.
