Dear Readers,
Do you remember the endless summers of childhood, when days seemed to stretch on forever? Hours dripped like honey, slow and sweet, abundant with possibilities. We didn’t yet have calendars packed with deadlines, hearts wound tight with urgency, or phones buzzing every few minutes. We were more present then—and presence made time feel full.
But now? Weeks blur. Months vanish. And we find ourselves whispering, almost in disbelief: “Where did all that time go?”
Here’s the tender truth: the secret to experiencing an abundance of time lies not in making more of it, but in reclaiming your attention.
Time is collective, but your attention is yours alone.
All humans struggle with the same thing: time and attention. We are each allotted just so much time for this life; we don’t know how much we have. But we do know this: attention is the unit of time that we actually own. When your attention is whole and undivided, your moments stretch. When it’s split—by dings, scrolls, the pull to do ten things at once—your days collapse in on themselves.
In our accelerated modern world, attention is splintered into smaller and smaller shards. Every phone notification, every anxious thought, every mental to-do pulls us out of presence. And without presence, there is no real experience of time—just the illusion of speed.
This isn’t just about technology or busyness. It’s also how we approach healing, growth, and the sacred work of becoming. We want transformation fast. We want to feel better now. We pray once and expect the ache to dissolve by morning. But the truth is…
Time is an ingredient of change.
You can’t rush a pregnancy. You can’t fast-forward a tree from seed to bloom. And you can’t microwave spiritual evolution. In this world, healing begins in the energetic realm but must pass through the density of matter, the laws of biology, the rhythm of the soul’s unfolding.
The virtue of patience is not a passive waiting—it’s an active trust in the cosmic design.
Stillness is how we begin to experience that trust. When we pause, when we sit in full presence, our perception of time expands. Our consciousness deepens. The moment becomes vibrant, alive. Not because we did more—but because we were there for it.
Stillness is not the absence of doing. It’s the fullness of being. It’s spiritual integrity. It’s medicine.
Let this week be a quiet devotion to your own attention. Let stillness return you to the abundance of time you once knew.
Here’s to the stillness of summer.
In Everything We Trust,
Sylvia
