A Book of Stories

The image of a book was clear during meditation recently. The body is a book of stories waiting to be held, waiting to be explored and recreated, expunged, and reimagined. It holds the histories of lifetimes within its cells, chapters of laughter and grief, memories stored in muscle and bone, and sensations woven through veins like trails and pathways to adventures long ago. For the body, change just is—it is constant and flowing, unending. There is no need to be static; it is not possible to be static on this plane. The pages shift, always in motion, and I am here, reading them. I am listening. I am taking responsibility, practicing patience and kindness, learning to let go.

This new routine is like watching water boil—my mind can’t resist checking the clock, adjusting the flame, shifting the pan, waiting for those first bubbles to form. I hover, overthinking every sensation, trying to make it happen faster. But of course, the more I try to control it, the longer it seems to take. Sometimes the body’s stories need slow simmering, and maybe all I’m supposed to do is sit back, breathe, and let them unfold in their own time.

I do feel the progress; it ripples through me, gentle but undeniable. I can sense the difference intuitively, in my heart of hearts. A guided meditation suggests I listen to my own heartbeat. I struggle to find the pulse at my wrist, but it is still there, reassuring and human. I can't begin to comprehend it, but at least I know the forgotten language exists. My pulse is felt and fathomed more deeply, each beat more meaningful, more puzzling, like a language spoken only in quiet moments. My heart has become my storyteller, guiding me toward a kind of foreign, distant wisdom that has no need for words.

Can you imagine that you are created with one machine, designed solely to experience all this physical plane has to offer? This one mechanism, this one precious unit, is our sole instrument for touching the world. It is guided and linked to something beyond the physical, hovering here yet locked in time, willing and resistant all at once, both knowing and forgetting, remembering and learning. And we are to hold this instrument, this vehicle, with reverence. For any explanation or story we create to describe it feels inadequate, period.

​As I meditated, I began with a bit of grumpiness—accusatory thoughts, doubts, negativity. They’re familiar visitors. I am, since my last set of meditation classes, moving forward on my own with a blush of an idea on how to rewrite my own body’s stories. Yet impatience remains a close friend of mine… we’re tight! I’m making new friends with love, patience, responsibility, and power. It’s uncomfortable and strangely magnetic. That old saying, “Make new friends but keep the old” does not apply here! I am looking forward to letting go of my very good, very old friends: fear, avoidance, resistance, blame, and impatience.

I imagine these old companions slowly receding, but not like a wave on the sand—that’s much too quick. No, perhaps more like a season passing, but even that moves too fast for this process. We move from summer to fall to winter in only weeks, and this change feels far slower. So what analogy can I use? Perhaps it’s like moving from childhood to puberty or fertility to barrenness; the shifts in the human body take years, lifetimes even. I’m beginning to appreciate the depth of these changes, realizing that generations of genetics and evolution bear upon this body in my lifetime. This journey, my body’s story, is shaped by the ages. I recall a passage from Eckhart Tolle in Oneness with All Life: battling and fighting aren’t effective since there is no enemy. It’s not about “doing” anything, only remaining alert and aware. Notice the thoughts and consider the source.

For now, in this moment, I get to exercise my creativity and keep my mind engaged as I journey toward alignment with my body-mind. I so enjoyed my recent trip north, when the original plans fell through, the sudden freedom from a time commitment was invigorating, like the spontaneous rush of clear air. I got to jump into the flow of life without a project, destination, or appointment! I remembered Julia Cameron’s advice about scheduling a weekly “Artist’s Date,” "The Artist Date is a once-weekly, festive, solo expedition to explore something that interests you. The Artist Date need not be overtly “artistic”– think mischief more than mastery. Artist Dates fire up the imagination. They spark whimsy. They encourage play."  I checked the movies playing at the local theater. I watched a few trailers, curious if something might feel entertaining, enlightening, or informative. I considered adding a trip to the cinema as one adventure on a weekly date. Movies, however, won’t be making my solo adventure list—at least not the ones on the marquee right now. It was instantly apparent, just watching the trailers, that this is precisely where a lot of my delusional expectations about relationships came from! Instead, I want to keep my mind and emotions open to my own creative endeavors rather than immersing myself in someone else’s story. As moving or poignant as their tales of love, fulfillment, loss, or drama may be, thanks to meditation, clarity, and a better relationship with the present moment, I choose, for now, to listen with patience and kindness to my own heart’s song. I’ll tune into my own radio station, catching up on my own reactions, preferences, loves, dislikes, and curiosities.
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Over and out.

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