For almost twenty-four hours, there was a visitor outside my window who seemed to have nowhere else to be.
A praying mantis had settled on top of one of the pale pink roses in my garden.
I first noticed him from inside.
There he was, perched above the petals, almost perfectly still.
Hours passed.
He stayed.
Evening came.
Still there.
By the next day, I had begun checking the window simply to see if my little visitor remained.
He did.
I found myself fascinated by his ability to be so completely where he was.
No pacing.
No apparent urgency.
No need to fill the silence.
Just stillness.
The praying mantis has long gathered symbolism around that very quality—patience, attentiveness, quiet observation. Even its name seems to invite contemplation; mantis comes from an ancient Greek word associated with a seer or prophet, while those folded front legs gave us the familiar image of prayer.
But standing at my window, I wasn’t thinking much about history.
I was thinking about how difficult it can be for us humans to stay still.
We are so accustomed to asking:
What’s next?
What should I be doing?
Am I falling behind?
Shouldn’t something be happening by now?
Meanwhile, this tiny creature had apparently committed an entire day to a rose.
There was something almost amusing about that.
And something strangely beautiful.
The rose itself seemed part of the message.
Soft.
Delicate.
Open.
Yet sitting upon it was one of the garden’s skilled little hunters—quietly alert to everything around him.
Gentleness and strength sharing the same flower.
The next day, I finally went outside.
I approached slowly and stood near the rose.
I didn’t touch him or disturb him.
I simply acknowledged him.
In my own way, I thanked him for the medicine I had received from watching him—for the reminder of patience, presence and the quiet protection he offers my garden.
And then something happened that made the moment feel complete.
He slowly began climbing down.
I watched him disappear farther into the plant, and I was left standing beside the rose thinking about how often we expect life’s messages to arrive loudly.
An answer.
A sign.
A dramatic moment that tells us exactly what to do.
Maybe some of the things that guide us arrive much more quietly.
They sit outside the window.
They wait on a rose.
They interrupt our usual rhythm just enough for us to notice.
And they ask nothing more than our attention.
Perhaps stillness isn’t the absence of movement at all.
Maybe it is the place where we become aware of what has been there all along.
Some wisdom doesn’t knock at the door. It waits quietly outside the window until we notice.
Until it fades and the petals drop, I think I’ll be looking at that rose a little differently now.
With love,
Clarissa 🤍
