But Still

"When in doubt, simply be still. Stop, breathe, inwardly listen. Repeat this many times every day. Being still and quiet is the ultimate spiritual practice. Keep it this simple and you will see the results for yourself. But you must actually do it, not just think about it. Stop, breath, and inwardly listen to the listening. Repeat this many times every day."
  (Adyashanti)

There are many kinds of still, yet all I think related.

A still, the noun, is a container—something in which you distill liquids (almond liqueur, orange peel and coffee grappa, fennel or rose elixer . . .); the method of distilling things, getting at their quintessence.  It is the chamber, the vessel, in which the ultimate spirit of things quietly and wordlessly collects.

Still, the adverb, means continuance.  Still listening, carrying on, present.  “I’m still here.”  In the depths of the herb essences, the humming verdigris of temple bell, enduring quietly behind the busy hubbub of life scrambling desperately forward.

But still, another adverb, gives a gentle protest.  “I’m listening.”  “But still, you’re not hearing what I’m trying to say.”  It counters asking for a deeper stillness, a liquid stillness offered in exchange.

And then there's still more, still stiller, as still as it is possible to be.

image:  Christie B. Cochrell, Clay Bird