The Quieting is Lowen Foss’s way of connecting to the world—an internal state, a practice, a threshold.
It’s not meditation, though it may look like it. It’s not magic, though magic might notice it.
The Quieting is what happens when Lowen stops doing, stops naming, and simply is. It’s a state of profound attentiveness where ego drops away and The Hum becomes faintly audible—never loud, never showy, but steady and deep.
In the Quieting:
- Time stretches. Not slows, not stops—just slips its edges a little.
- Sights and sounds become layered: the shift of roots underground, the weight of moss, the memory of rain in the soil.
- Thought gives way to sense. Plants feel clearer. Materials respond differently. The wrong metal will resist the touch. The right herb will almost glow.
It can arrive when walking—when the rhythm of boots on soft ground syncs with breath and birdsong. It can arrive when crafting—when the hammer falls with perfect weight or the resin catches the scent of memory. It might arrive while tending Myrtle, or pressing their palm to bark, or listening to a story told in quiet honesty.
Lowen doesn’t force it. That would miss the point.
Instead, they make space for it. And when it comes, it’s like the hum of the world steps forward and looks them in the eye.
They don’t speak of it often. Not because it’s secret, but because it doesn’t fit well in words. But the Quieting is what gives Lowen their edge—not powerful, not chosen, but receptive. And in a world that has forgotten how to listen, that might be what matters most.