In the Stillness of Indifference

A Meditation on the Quiet

Happy May Beloveds,

I hope this new month brings to you an abundance of patience, deliberateness, pleasure, ease, flowers, and focus.

Yesterday, I had the pleasure of attending an art competition for middle and high school students hosted at the Ellis County African-American Hall of Fame Museum and Library in Waxahatchie, TX. It was my first time at the museum and it was beautiful to witness the students share their work with pride. Children have so much to share with us—so much to teach us. Our inner child does too if we choose to listen. There was one piece in particular that pulled me in to look deeper. The student artist, Savanna Adderly, wasn’t present to share about her work, so I spoke with the art teacher, Mr. Arthur Turner, to get more details. The student did not name the piece so Mr. Turner and I decided to call it In the Still of Indifference by Savanna Adderly, an 8th student at a local Desoto middle school.

In the Still of Indifference, 2024 by Savanna Adderly, $100, pencil and colored pencil on paper

Savanna Adderly’s artist statement:

“In the still of indifference, one can find peace without the burden of meaning. The background represents everything on the outside, thoughts, feelings, even people. The candytuft flower symbolizes indifference, and I incorporated them sort of ‘taking over’, adding to the thought of me fading into the background. I used pencil and colored pencil in the main composition.”

Mr. Turner shared with me that Savanna created her piece as a result of a period of indecision about what to create for her submission to the art competition. As she toiled in her mind, he reminded her of the Goju Ryu Karate principle of having an immovable mind, and encouraged her to use what she was feeling to draw something from the heart. As a result, this is what she created and as I learned more about her piece, I could not help but relate to her journey because it reflects my own. For me, the background of her piece reflects the chaos of living in the world and the candytuft flowers represent the willingness to resist despair—to resist succumbing to chaos, and doing so with grace. What she characterizes as indifference, I would interpret as stillness or quiet.

Savanna is selling this piece for $100 (at least). If you are interested in buying this work, please reach out directly to her art teacher at Arthur.turner@desotoisd.org.

Interiority is a word I first learned from the book The Sovereignty of Quiet: Beyond Resistance in Black Culture—a book written by my college professor and academic advisor, Kevin E. Quashie. I first came to the book as an undergraduate student, but didn’t read it until 2023 after my father passed away. The book is a meditation on the importance of the internal world of Black people and it works to uplift the concept of quiet as an invaluable part of tending to oneself as a Black person living in the world. At the time, I read it because I had just returned to New Orleans after two months of grieving with my family in a quaint suburb in Northern New Jersey. I was there to grieve and manage my father’s estate things, yes, but I often questioned what other more intangible reason brought me there. Towards the end of my time, I decided that the answer was quiet.

I had been living in New Orleans—a notoriously loud city— and was invited to be in the quiet with my family to move through the early moments of grieving after losing my dad. I was honestly terrified to leave New Orleans for fear that I wouldn’t return and for fear that I wouldn’t be able to connect with the side of my family that I hadn’t spent much time with, but I learned to appreciate those two months. I got to witness my family in a new way that helped me to unfurl my fears and connect with my inner world. I listened to childhood stories about my father, braved frustratingly tedious estate tasks, ate comforting daily helpings of cornmeal porridge, and laughed uncontrollably with my cousins over family tea. The quiet helped me to do the hard things.

During that time, I was with my family, but I also had a lot of time to be with myself—to hear the pieces of myself that had been hushed by the whirlwind of magic in New Orleans. I was able to settle into my inner voice—into the stillness. I was able to access my inner quiet. In New Jersey, I took daily walks and greeted the abundance of deer and neighborhood cats every morning. I moved slower and observed myself and others more. I listened deeper. I got frustrated and anxious a lot less. The quiet allowed me to meet that moment with grace and curiosity, and it allowed me to explore and name the truth for myself. It gave me an anchor and access to a tender sanctuary within myself where I could go to replenish while keeping a delicate boundary between my sanctuary and the outside world.

Last week, I watched a recorded discussion between Professors Eddie Glaude, Imani Perry, and Dr. Daniel Black at the 2025 New Orleans Book Festival. The topic of the conversation was ‘truth telling in troubled times.’ One synchronous message that Professor Perry and Dr. Daniel Black offered was that, for Black people in particular, it is critical that we fortify our internal worlds so that the external—be it quaintness or chaos—does not cause us to waver. While watching this talk, I was reminded of 2023, The Sovereignty of Quiet, and my own understanding of the importance of tending to my inner quiet—what I’ll characterize as my ‘inner armoire’.

I’ll be honest, this present moment is challenging my inner sanctuary in a way that I haven’t been challenged before. Not only are we in an unprecedented political moment, but on April 17, 2025, I turned 29. I am at the threshold of what I’m calling my ‘initiation into womanhood’ and I am contending with questions of who I am, who I desire to be, what no longer serves me, and what I desire to do with my life as the world is moving through its own cycle of death and rebirth. I feel that I am being called to deepen my relationship with my inner sanctuary by reckoning with a different kind of grief—not the loss of a loved one, but the grief that accompanies parting with a former version of myself and a former version of my life. The kind of grief that Spring brings. The kind of grief that allows water to spring forth from a rock. One that, at once, puts you square in the center of what was and what will be. You are dusting the shelves of your inner armoire as the roses begin to bud. You are cleaning out your closet and you are crying as you reflect on the adornments that once served a version of you well. Now, they are only taking up space in your inner armoire—space that you need for your new things–your new adornments. Things like stability, focus, and strength. Things like self-love and self-trust.

How do we access our inner quiet at a time like this? Look to the children.

Like Savanna’s piece, I look forward to finding peace without the heavy burden of meaning. I look forward to tending to my inner quiet even as the world shifts dramatically. I hope you will too.

In love & quiet,

Natalie J. James 💛

‘Untitled No. 1’

Please let me be all that I can.

Please let me make it through the threshold

And then through the portal

And then through to the other side.

Please be with me,

Even when I am alone and especially when I am afraid.

Let me laugh when I am most afraid.

Let the sweet grass kiss my bare feet when I am most uncertain.

Let God’s lips reach my ear and rest on my temple.

Let the universe come to greet me at the crossroads.

Let the Blue Jays sing a sweet song.

I am always whole

Even and especially when I am not the same kind of whole I once was.

I am more than I ever knew I could be

Even and especially

when I just

allow

myself

to be.

Unfurl your fists my dear child.

Unclench your jaw.

Open your heart and release your cares to the whispers of the wind.

Breathe.

Lift your chin and laugh.

Touch your tender belly and scream.

Tap your toes and dance to earth’s drum.

You are here, now.

You are whole.

Always.

Even and especially, in the in-between.

By Natalie J. James