from the series: Quiet-ish: Meditations for the Restless Mind
Written on a day when the brain refused to whisper…
Some days, my brain rolls out floats, fires the confetti glitter cannon, and throws a thought parade. It could be peaceful—like a lazy river of drifting awareness—but the moment I start cheering them on, everything speeds up. Suddenly, I’m not floating anymore, I’m trying to match the rhythm of real life. And honestly? I’d rather drift.
Mine is the kind of parade where clowns throw candy at you aggressively, whether you want it or not. Where every band marches through like they’ve got somewhere of extreme importance to be. Every cup of coffee comes with extra shots of espresso and regret. Storylines, character development, and philosophical spirals march down the banks of my stream of consciousness like they’ve been rehearsing for weeks.
The floats? Past-mistake-themed, mostly. Or the “you’re supposed to be a better mother/daughter/wife/sister by now” kind. There are balloons filled with social obligations, bobbing ominously overhead, and the marching band refuses to stop playing the greatest hits of existential dread.
Honestly? My parade is pretty impressive.
Attendance is mandatory for the cacophony of characters in my brain—but once they arrive, they get free reign. It’s chaos. It’s creative. It’s absurd. And it’s mine.
One of the standout stars of my Thought Parade is the character who creates elaborate backstories for everyone I meet. What if that guy on the corner is secretly a novelist? What if she’s homeless—but still sends her mom flowers on Mother’s Day? Does the man in line at CVS like dogs? Is my neighbor in Witness Protection? I don’t know, but my brain insists on casting them all in some kind of internal drama series.
Between these spontaneous narrative arcs, lightning bolts of panic strike hard. A voice shouts: You’re forgetting something. You’re supposed to do something. Be somewhere. Be SOMEONE. And for a split second, I’m convinced I’m personally unraveling the fabric of time because I didn’t respond to an email, missed a Slack message, or forgot to pick up cat food. It’s like being drop-kicked out of daydreaming and straight into the guilt-industrial complex.
Then, just as dramatically, the opposite thought floats by: None of this matters. It’s all a play. And not even a tightly written one. More like an improv show no one paid to see. My parade might be mine, but it’s mostly just dramatic reenactments of what I’ve already experienced—over and over again, now with more dialogue and lighting effects. I’m not the star. I’m a rotating supporting character in someone else’s plot, showing up with strong reactions and questionable wardrobe choices. No one’s watching. There’s no script. The stakes? Imagined.
Weirdly… it’s kind of comforting.
Until the next float circles back and whispers, But what if you really are forgetting something important?
This is why, for much of my life, I’ve tried to shush the parade. Especially at work. Corporate America doesn’t take kindly to mental floats and candy-throwing clowns during status meetings. There’s a strong preference for “focus,” which—let’s be honest—is just the quiet killing of your inner poet in favor of spreadsheets and Slack threads. So I mask. I straighten my cardigan. I nod like I know what’s going on. I take notes on action items that will absolutely evaporate into the time-blind void by lunch.
I’m not watching my parade anymore. I’ve been drafted into someone else’s, where the music is sterile and the balloons are branded. And still, my thought parade in my head tries to break through—dancing at the edges, waiting for its next cue. Like the mother of a high-energy toddler I try to distract it. I promise we’re almost there. Five more minutes.
When I do get a moment of stillness—like actual stillness, not “taking two meetings and doing a crossword” stillness—something shifts. The thoughts don’t disappear. They’re still there, still moving, but the energy changes. My mindset changes. I start to see them for what they are: a parade of thoughts, showing up for my attention. And I get to choose how much attention I give them.
The marching band softens into something jazzy and slow. The tempo drops. The clowns stop throwing candy. The floats glide instead of crash. It’s like they know—if I’m not chasing them or shushing them, they can just be. They don’t have to perform. And neither do I.
Sometimes, when it’s really good, I picture myself floating in a pool. Not swimming. Not striving. Just drifting—on a raft, popcorn in hand, watching my thoughts like a movie I’ve already seen. The movie’s kind of boring, but the popcorn? Fantastic. The sun is warm, the water is still, and for a few minutes, I remember: the mind will do what the mind does.
The thought parade keeps moving, with or without my permission. But I don’t have to follow every float. I don’t have to fix anything. I can wave. I can smile. I can float. The thoughts don’t need to disappear or make sense. They just need space—and the gentle knowing that I’m not here to control them.
I’m just here to be. And for now, that’s enough.
💭 Gentle Prompt:
What’s the soundtrack to your thought parade? Can you sit still today—just for a moment—and float beside it, without trying to direct it?
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