I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the word ‘equinamity’: what it really means, why we use it so infrequently, and how we can translate the inner stillness of equinamity into outer action.
It’s an old question, of course. The contemplative traditions are full of cautions against mistaking withdrawal for wisdom, or serenity for disengagement. And yet, in many contemporary spiritual and creative cultures, stillness is subtly framed as an end in itself, or something to be achieved, protected, even defended against the messiness of life.
My own experience suggests something more demanding, and ultimately more generous: stillness is not a place we go, but a quality we carry. Its real test is not how calm we feel on the cushion, but how we move when the world asks something of us.
Equanimity is often misunderstood as emotional neutrality or the ability to remain unruffled, untouched. But in its deeper sense (and here the Stoics, Buddhist psychology, and contemporary contemplative science quietly agree), equanimity is not about less feeling. It’s about more capacity. As William James observed in The Varieties of Religious Experience, maturity of spirit does not erase emotion; it reorganises it. Similarly, in Buddhist psychology, upekkhā (equanimity) is not indifference but balance—the ability to stay present without being commandeered by reactivity.
What matters, then, is not whether we feel disturbance, but whether disturbance determines our next move.
This distinction has felt particularly alive to me recently as I return to university teaching after a sabbatical and time away from campus to focus on my thinking and writing. Much of that time was spent working on my latest book, a project that demanded long stretches of solitude, patience, and sustained inward listening. Sabbaticals are often imagined as pauses from “real work,” but for me this one clarified something essential: inner stillness only becomes trustworthy when it is tested by responsibility.
There is a moment in many contemplative narratives that matters more than the awakening itself: the return. The Buddha leaves the Bodhi tree. Dante descends the mountain of Purgatory. The mystic goes back to the village.
For me, that return has taken the form of stepping into a new academic role at my university, taking over the MA programmes in English Literature and Creative Writing. I feel a genuine sense of excitement about this transition because it asks for a different quality of presence.
Teaching, at its best, is a relational practice. It requires attunement, adaptability, and a willingness to meet uncertainty without control. In that sense, it is one of the most honest laboratories for equanimity I know. You cannot curate the room. You cannot pre-empt every emotional current. You can only show up with clarity, boundaries, and a willingness to respond rather than react.
In my coaching and teaching work, I often encounter the fear that: If I slow down, I’ll lose momentum. If I soften, I’ll stop functioning. But stillness, when cultivated well, does not reduce effectiveness but it refines it.
Contemporary neuroscience supports this. Practices that strengthen interoceptive awareness and emotional regulation do not dampen motivation; they improve decision-making under pressure. This is where equanimity becomes practical. It shows up as:
- the ability to pause before replying to a difficult email
- the capacity to hold creative uncertainty without collapsing into self-judgement
- the willingness to set boundaries without aggression or apology
These are not abstract ideals. They are trainable skills—and they matter enormously for creatives, academics, and highly sensitive people navigating complex systems.
Writers and artists, in particular, are vulnerable to confusing intensity with truth. We can mistake emotional activation for insight, urgency for necessity. Yet some of the most durable work I know emerges from a place of deep inner steadiness. Equanimity allows us to stay with the work long enough for it to become true, not just expressive.
This insight informs much of what I explore in my current writing and teaching: how attachment dynamics, attention, and inner regulation shape not only what we create, but how we live alongside our creations. Creative formation, like spiritual formation, is less about transcendence than about reliability—becoming someone who can be trusted with complexity.
If stillness is to move with us, it must be practiced in motion. This is why I’m increasingly interested in integrative approaches that bridge meditation, creative rhythm, and everyday action.
Over the coming weeks, I’m hosting a small number of workshops through The Art of Creative Practice that explore exactly this terrain:
- Integrative Meditation
26 January | 7.30–8.30 PM GMT | £4
A gentle, grounded session focused on cultivating inner stillness that supports (rather than escapes) daily life.
👉 Register here: https://www.meetup.com/the-art-of-creative-practice/events/311989157/ - Highly Sensitive Creatives: Energy, Boundaries, and Creative Rhythm
27 January | 7.30–9.00 PM GMT | £12
An exploration of equanimity as a boundary practice—how to work sustainably without dulling sensitivity.
👉 Register here: https://www.meetup.com/the-art-of-creative-practice/events/312712764/ - Creative Flow Co-Working Session: The Power of Tiny Experiments
2 February | 10 AM–12 PM GMT | FREE
A practical space for translating inner clarity into small, doable action—without overwhelm.
👉 Register here: https://www.meetup.com/the-art-of-creative-practice/events/312077761/
For those seeking more sustained, individual support, my 1-1 creativity coaching spaces are currently fully booked until March. If you’d like to join the waiting list, you’re very welcome to get in touch at allan_johnson@mac.com.
Equanimity is not a spiritual personality trait. It is a practice of continuity: learning how to carry what we touch in silence into the noise of relationship, work, and responsibility.
As I step back into the classroom, into institutional life, and into new forms of creative leadership, I’m reminded that the real measure of stillness is not how protected it feels—but how generously it participates.
Stillness that cannot move will eventually calcify. But stillness that walks with us becomes wisdom.
And wisdom, as ever, is something we learn in company.
Discover more from Allan Johnson, PhD
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