The Monastery in My Mind: Slow Living as a Spiritual Practice

The Monastery in My Mind: Slow Living as a Spiritual Practice

Sometimes I daydream about living in a real monastery. The kind with quiet halls, morning bells, and long stretches of time where nothing needs to be done but everything matters. I crave that rhythm—not as an escape from modern life, but as a return to something more human.

But here’s the truth: I have deadlines, bills, responsibilities, and a nervous system that doesn’t always cooperate. So I started building the monastery in my mind instead.

This isn’t about aesthetic escapism. It’s about reclaiming the interior space where God still speaks.

What Is Slow Living (Really)?

Slow living isn’t about doing everything slowly. It’s about doing the right things at the right pace for your soul. It’s about refusing to treat your worth as a function of productivity. It’s about prayer before performance. Presence before progress.

It means making peace with unhurried obedience. It means noticing when your pace outruns your purpose, or when the world’s metrics of value begin to eclipse Christ’s.

When I live slowly, I:

• Take time to notice what God is doing in the ordinary

• Pause before reacting

• Build routines that leave room for grace (I created a printable daily rhythm template inspired by this idea—available in my Ko-fi shop if you’d like a companion to help build your own sacred routine)

• Listen to my body like it has something to teach me (because it does)

• Let silence stretch long enough for Christ to enter

Anchoring the Day with Sacred Rhythm

Monastic life has a natural rhythm: prayer, work, rest. We can mimic that in our own lives, even if our schedules are chaotic. I anchor my day with small practices:

• Lighting a candle before I write

• Whispering the Liturgy of the Hours (even imperfectly)

• Taking a quiet walk and letting it count as prayer

• Leaving space between tasks instead of cramming everything in

Some days, my rhythm falters. The candle doesn’t get lit. I snap at someone I love. I let anxiety set the tone. But the sacred rhythm is still there—ready to receive me again. That’s what makes it holy. It’s not performance. It’s invitation.

Jesus isn’t pacing, waiting for us to catch up. He’s already seated beside the well.

The Monastery as a Mindset

You don’t have to move to the woods to find holiness. The monastery isn’t just a place. It’s a posture.

We create it by choosing slowness in a world that demands speed. We create it by honoring stillness, cultivating beauty, tending to the unseen. Slow living becomes spiritual when it turns our gaze toward God’s presence in the hidden moments.

Sometimes my monastery shows up in how I fold a blanket or the way I linger over Psalm 131. Sometimes it’s washing dishes while asking Christ to make me clean, too. I don’t need stone walls—I need sacred attention.

Living slowly, for me, means choosing a Kingdom rhythm in a culture that monetizes momentum. I move through the day asking not just “What should I do?” but “Where is Christ already waiting for me?”

When the World Doesn’t Slow Down With You

Slow living isn’t always possible. Some days are full of errands, caretaking, or crisis. But even in the rush, I try to return to small moments of surrender:

• The breath before speaking

• The prayer tucked inside a walk to the mailbox

• The short pause before I refresh the page again

Christ is in those spaces, too.

Slowness is not about control—it’s about consent. I consent to the reality that I am not God. I consent to the idea that I am not behind schedule if I am following Him.

Final Thought: You Are Not Behind

If your life feels fragmented or messy, you’re not failing. You’re learning how to build a sacred rhythm in an unsacred world. The monastery in your mind can become a refuge—a place where your soul can catch its breath and remember that God moves slowly, too.

If this reflection spoke to you, you’ll find more tools for slow living, prayer journaling, and intentional rest in my Ko-fi shop. Everything there is designed to make space for Christ in the ordinary.

Jesus walked. He stopped. He asked questions. He wept. He blessed interruptions. He lived with enough time.

So can we.

And when we forget—when the pace of the world overtakes us—Christ is still there, waiting in the quiet, whispering us back into rhythm.