To grow, we must rest. It’s a truth buried deep in the rhythm of life — so obvious in nature, yet so easily forgotten in the noise of our busy lives. But the earth remembers.

Even the richest soil needs to take a break. Rest isn’t the end of life — it’s part of the beginning. Under the surface, roots keep growing. Seeds split open in the quiet. Life gets ready in secret. The same is true for us. Our creativity, our healing, our strength — all of it starts in the stillness.

Autumn is slowly arriving this year, like a gentle whisper at the edge of the day. But I can feel the change coming. The air feels different. The soil is starting to relax. Leaves fall and begin to break down, feeding what will one day grow again. The land is preparing for sleep, and in doing so, it prepares for renewal.

I want to lean into that rhythm. I want to see more sunrises — wrapped in a blanket, warm drink in hand, watching the light stretch across the sky. I want to feel the chill of morning air on my skin and be reminded that I’m alive, connected to the turning of the seasons.

I want to stroll through farmers markets, baskets full of earthy root vegetables and fresh herbs. I want to go forest bathing, breathing in the calm of tall trees. I want to forage — mushrooms, berries, and whatever else the wild offers.

Let me hike. Let me walk with no destination. Let me pack a picnic just because the day feels worth celebrating. Let me go beachcombing after a storm, searching for treasures the tide left behind. Let me stargaze until the sky wraps around me. Let me birdwatch until I know each song. Let me wander the bush trails, and climb the hills, feeling the heartbeat of the land match my own.

These are the best experiences in life — not because they are loud or expensive, but because they bring me back to myself. There is something ancient in them, something familiar. Being Finnish, silence and returning to the earth feels like second nature to me. It’s in my bones, it’s in my DNA — this quiet reverence for nature, this deep knowing that stillness isn’t empty, but full. Finns know how to do this so well. We walk into forests, soak up the silence, and let the land speak.

And in those moments, I not only return to myself — I return to awe. To wonder. I remember the beauty of God’s handiwork in every detail. The perfect curve of a leaf, the rhythm of the waves, the endless sky — they aren’t random. They are purposeful. When I slow down, I see Him more clearly. In the small things, in the wild places, in the quiet, He is there.

Rest is not a reward. It is a holy rhythm. A sacred pause. A place where life begins again — not through doing more, but by simply being present.

So, like the land, I give myself permission to pause.
To breathe.
To listen.
To rest.
And to grow — quietly, deeply, beautifully — through stillness.

Perhaps the most important things in life are not achieved by striving, but remembered in the stillness where we reconnect with what truly matters.