There’s More Going On Here
I like to sleep with my window open at night. The sounds outside remind me that there’s more going on here.
Nighttime is when my worries like to stretch out and get comfortable. During the day, they’re easier to outrun—buried under to-do lists, conversations, movement. But when the house quiets and the lights go out, they start to whisper again. The brain kicks into high gear: Did I handle that right? Did I say too much? What if I missed something important?
That’s when the outside sounds help. The wind picks up and moves through the trees, soft and steady. An owl calls somewhere in the distance. A car hums down the road, someone else out there in their own story. The leaves rustle as if they’re busy with their own secret work. I listen, and it reminds me that life is still unfolding out there—full, alive, ongoing. The world doesn’t need my management. It’s not waiting for me to figure it all out. With that realization comes a deep exhale. It loosens my grip. It reminds me I’m part of something much bigger, and that I can rest in that. I’m not the center of it all, just one heartbeat in the middle of everything.
I do the same thing in my car sometimes. When I’m nervous on mountain roads or when I’m enduring my kids’ gangsta rap I crack the window. If it’s cold, I stick out one finger. If it’s warm, my whole arm. The air hits my skin, and something shifts. It’s like I can send my anxiety out the window—let it mix with the wind and find its place somewhere else. It reminds me again: there’s more going on here. I don’t have to control everything. I don’t even have to be the one driving, literally or metaphorically.
In the early mornings, the house is quiet. If I was the last one up, it’s clean. If not, I’ll find the evidence of midnight snacks or sudden creative inspiration—crumbs on the counter, art supplies on the table. Either way, I tuck in the couch and take a breath. There’s more going on here.
Even in my own mind, I can feel it. When I catch myself spiraling—mentally arguing with someone, replaying a conversation, judging, ranting—it’s like watching a train I’ve ridden too many times. The grooves are familiar. I know exactly where they lead. And when I catch it, I can see that even inside my own brain, there’s more going on here. I can go down this same track, or try something new. I can soften a little. I can have compassion—for myself, for whoever I’m stuck on—and in that moment, I can feel something bigger than the argument. A shift. A little light. A crack of air through an open window.
I think that might be my new name for the Divine: There’s More Going On Here.