"Urban Dictionary: "It's all gravy."
Gravy is a sauce made from the juices of meat or vegetables and enhances the flavour of a meal. In poorer times, to have gravy on your meal is a sign that you have sufficient meat and vegetables to make such a nice meal. Hence the phrase "on the gravy train" meaning that ones life was well supplied with good things, usually money. "It's all gravy" therefore means that there is an abundance of good things in the given circumstance.
It should not be taken to mean that there is no problem or that a situation is liked, specifically. Those things may follow but are not necessarily connected.
A: We just secured a lucrative contract with the supplier with an open ended term.
B: It's all gravy from here on, boys."

My life is well supplied, and I have an abundance of good things. It’s all gravy from here on!
Today is day 348 of 2024. Only 18 days left in this wild, transformative year. It’s been quite the ride—unexpected twists, challenges, and breakthroughs. My watchword, my guiding principle this year, has been FREEDOM.

Yesterday, during meditation, I experienced a delightfully liberating set of messages. They weren’t entirely new—I’ve heard them before—but repetition seems to be the secret sauce of real change. Like so many other insights, it takes time for these epiphanies to sink in, settle, and become something more than fleeting thoughts. For real change to happen, they need time to weave into my habits, lifestyle, and truth. It’s a gradual process, stripping away old ways and cracking open new ones. And, as always, there’s no rushing this. Time will tell in each case.

Earlier this week, I stumbled across a Michael Singer podcast titled “Doing the REAL WORK to Free Yourself.” I didn’t plan to listen to it; it just appeared in my path. I pulled the transcript from YouTube, printed it, and sat with it. His message—simple yet profound—landed with a clarity I wasn’t expecting. His examples and analogies triggered something in me: a shift or internal change I can’t quite name. Is it fair to say that everything and nothing changed? Everything and nothing matters? Everything and nothing needs to be done?

Maybe. For now, the proof is in how I feel—more clear, more confident. For the moment, I understand that I am perfectly perfect, just as I am. Everything I’ve ever done or will do is also perfectly perfect. There’s no need to judge, compare, prove, or explain myself. This is freedom. Trust is freedom. Love is freedom.

Over the last few weeks, I’ve been navigating a freak injury—one of those out-of-nowhere things that stops everything. I took it as an opportunity to pause and just be present with my body, soul, and mind. I didn’t abandon my BYOB meditation practice, though, and I feel rewarded for the consistency. Those daily sessions helped me uncover—or maybe reintroduce—my inner voices: the voice of my heart, the voice of my soul, and the voice of my body.

Singer’s podcast didn’t offer anything groundbreaking or new, but it hit differently this time. My openness and willingness to truly hear it, process it, and integrate it made all the difference. It fit perfectly with the patience and wisdom I’ve been practicing through the BYOB meditation. Together, these practices have helped me let go of the need to "finish" anything. There is no finish line. Instead, I’ve been focusing on moments that feel significant—moments like yesterday, 12-12-24.

I requested a benchmark for this date, though I don’t know how to label it. And honestly, I don’t need to. I just know it matters because I say so. It reminds me of another date: 4-14-14, the day I got sober. I see the patterns in these numbers and take comfort in their symmetry, though the true significance lies in the journey itself, not the calendar.
​
Looking back, I realize how close I’ve come to death—twice, at least, by all rights. I “should” be dead, but here I am. I was spared. I survived. And I’m endlessly grateful.
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It’s all gravy from here on!

Friendship is one thing, but partnership? That’s a whole new level. This journey of self-discovery has surprised me with insights I didn’t even know I needed—like the realization that my relationship with my body isn’t just about making nice and being friendly. It’s about collaboration, teamwork, and even a little trial and error.

When I started this journey, I believed I had no self-love and zero idea how to take care of my body. I saw myself as judgmental and mean, a negligent caretaker at best. My efforts were emergency-only responses—foxhole prayers to get me through a crisis. Sure, I’d hit up a detox spa or squeeze in an annual physical, but mostly, I manipulated my body with food, alcohol, nicotine, and the occasional massage or acupuncture session. I assumed my track record was awful.

But surprise! Turns out I wasn’t as terrible as I thought. According to my inner voice, I’ve done an excellent job navigating the trials and tribulations of being in a human body. Who knew? Sure, I was judgmental and mean at times—no delusion there—but I wasn’t the hopeless case I imagined.

Initially, my goal was simple: to befriend my body. I figured friendship would mean showing up consistently and listening. That’s about as far as I’d gotten. But now, the door is open, trust is blossoming, and the experience with coffee is proof. Slowly, I’m learning to step back from dictator mode and let my body have a say.

And then came the curveball: this isn’t just about friendship—it’s a partnership. The words in this piece of art came floating by clear as a bell in my meditation a couple of days ago. We, the body, mind, spirit and emotions are not just friends, we're partners!

This is my jam! Partnership feels professional, organized. It’s about cooperation, collaboration, and clear communication. The images that came to me during meditation were all about teamwork—a team where my body, mind, and soul are all active players. For whatever odd reason, I feel more at home in a partnership than a friendship. It feels solid and dependable, like something I can count on. Each part brings something unique to the table. The body shows up with its signals and needs, the mind processes and plans, the spirit offers perspective, and emotions give everything a little color. Together, we’re figuring it out, one step at a time.

But let’s be real: the partnership is a work in progress. I keep noticing tidbits of resistance and attachment—polarities that create discord. My attachment to being thin fuels my resistance to accepting how I look now. These two forces are locked in a battle that keeps me spinning my wheels. If I wasn’t searching for a long term unique solution through meditation, I’d probably be on another yo-yo diet and cycling through detailed exercise plans that I’d abandon after a few days.

And then there’s coffee—my old pal. Coffee used to be my ride-or-die buddy. But now? It’s that friend who overstays their welcome, leaving you with a sour stomach and the realization that maybe you’ve outgrown them. The fact that I’ve been quietly weaning myself off without any grand declarations or rebellious backlash? Honestly, that feels like a miracle.

So what does partnership look like in practice? For starters, it means listening. When I’m stuck in judgmental, comparing, self-hating thoughts, I’m learning to collaborate with my feelings—both mentally and physically. Like today, when I was spiraling, I did a quick five-minute indoor walk. That tiny shift got me out of my head and back into my body.

And that’s what partnership looks like—collaborating with your feelings and your body, moving through the hard stuff one step (or quick indoor walk) at a time. It’s not perfect, and it doesn’t have to be. But this too shall pass. And when it does, I’ll still be here, showing up for the team.

Each afternoon the meditations I experience appear to be all the same. Life is a funny thing, isn’t it? Even when it seems like nothing’s new—bam! Heraclitus said it most clearly with his saying: "You can’t step into the same river twice." Or in my case, you can't have the same meditation twice!

This idea of ever-newness hit me again during a recent meditation practice. The guided session (from an OSHO app—BYOB: Be Your Own Bestie, or as I’ve now renamed it, BMOB: Be My Own Bestie) is rooted in a course I recently completed: OSHO Reminding Yourself of the Forgotten Language of Talking to Your BodyMind. It’s a 45-minute guided journey of listening to your body, inviting alignment, and waiting for messages about new behaviors to emerge. On November 14th, one message came through loud and clear: Water is Love.

The image of the water drop filled with hearts was as vivid as if someone had painted it on the inside of my eyelids. It spilled effortlessly onto paper later that day, the font for the words even appearing by “mistake.” The message that came with it was equally vivid: It's OK to drink more water. Morning, evening, before meals, in between meals—water is LOVE!

Oh joy! A behavior I can get behind 1000%. I already love water. No disguises, no flavor additives—just pure, clean goodness. And here at Providence Lodge, our well water is practically liquid gold. Aside from coffee, water and iced tea are my go-to beverages. But now, with this added encouragement, I’ve been stepping up my water game, pouring a little more with each passing day.

Now let’s talk about coffee for a second. Coffee and I? We’ve had a good run. I couldn't do without my Starbucks fix on the train ride to work in New York City, no way! But lately, it’s like a clingy acquaintance who’s overstayed their welcome. Sure, it was warm and exciting at first, but now it’s all acidic vibes and nausea. I mean, I powered through for old times’ sake—what’s one more cup, right?—but even my body’s over it.

Over the past week, I’ve noticed this shift. After 1.5 cups, I’d get that sour, acidic tummy feeling, sometimes a wave of nausea so strong it made me question my life choices. But did I stop? Of course not. Coffee is my guilty pleasure, my reward, my safety net. And let’s not forget the epic caffeine withdrawal headaches waiting in the wings.

Then, something miraculous happened. I didn’t finish my second cup. It sat there, abandoned, waiting to be emptied later in the day. Yesterday, I planned for one glorious cup, no more. And today? I couldn’t even finish that. Somewhere in the blur of nausea and mindfulness, I realized my body had been gently weaning me off coffee without any declarations, control tactics, or rebellious backlash.

Healthy, natural behaviors are rising to the surface in their own time, with their own priorities, without me needing to force or dictate. This, my friends, is the dream. No guilt, no struggle—just ease and grace. My attachment to coffee feels unnecessary now, even a little silly.

And that’s the beauty of listening to your body. It’s not about micromanaging every little thing; it’s about trusting that, given the space and attention, your body knows what it needs. For me, it started with water—a simple, loving shift—and its growing into something bigger: alignment.

So here I am, on day 9 of this BMOB (Be My Own Bestie) 30 day meditation journey, embracing more water and less coffee. The transition feels surprisingly natural. My body’s wisdom, it seems, has been there all along.

And you know what? It’s fucking awesome.

Here’s to more water, less coffee, and the joy of discovering that change doesn’t have to be forced—it can flow, just like a river.

This diagram was surprisingly challenging to create. You know that feeling when something makes perfect sense in your head? It’s clear, intuitive, almost like a dance. Then, you try to capture it on paper, and suddenly it’s boxes and arrows and scribbles. That was my experience with this meditation insight. I started with a big swooshy arrow, feeling like an artist in flow, and ended up with… a visual puzzle that looks more like a science project.

During meditation, I pictured a big swooshy arrow—blue and curling—representing a simple shift from one set of thoughts and behaviors to a radically different experience of the same things. The swooshy arrow was the perfect representation of this shift I felt—something light, effortless, that just swoops in and transforms everything in its path. It’s the kind of arrow that says, “Hey, no need to overthink this.” It was more about the feeling of letting go than about any specific outcome.

So why, you might ask, did it turn into a diagram with boxes, labels, and lots of arrows? There’s something about human nature that loves making simple things complicated. We have an epiphany and immediately start dissecting it. Can we just let the swooshy arrow be? Apparently not. We want diagrams, explanations, and flowcharts. The meditation experience said, “Just shift your focus.” But of course, I had to go and create a map for it.

And that map? It’s all about flip-flopping behaviors. The concept sounds elegant: instead of obsessing over food, I could obsess over movement. Instead of resisting movement, I could try resisting certain foods. It’s like rearranging furniture in your mind—familiar elements, just with a new layout. There’s something oddly freeing in realizing you don’t have to “get rid of” anything; you just move things around. For once, I don’t have to “fix” anything; I just need to try placing it somewhere else.

So, how do we actually make this work? I started small. When I noticed myself obsessing over food—what I ate, what I planned to eat—I paused and asked, “What would it look like to use this energy on movement?” It’s like rewiring a circuit in my brain. I remind myself that I can simply shift my focus, that I can experiment with where I put my mental energy. The more I practice, the more natural it becomes.

Meditation creates this space of non-judgment—a place where all these “undesirable” behaviors suddenly feel neutral, even kind of interesting. From that space, it’s easier to look at them objectively and say, “What if I just moved things around?” Instead of trying to exile certain habits, I can simply shift their energy. The openness I felt during meditation allowed me to see that I don’t need to judge myself for having these tendencies. They’re just part of the puzzle.

And sometimes, the simplest insights turn out to be the hardest to capture on paper. It's funny, isn’t it? We use every ounce of brain power to expect, search, judge, and compare, only to discover that a single swooshy arrow might hold the key. Whether or not I get this “flip-flop” idea working in real life, I get to keep exploring, moving things around until it feels right. That’s progress in itself.
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So here’s to the swooshy arrow—a symbol of simplicity, ease, and trust. I may have turned it into boxes and arrows, but the insight remains. Sometimes, the solution doesn’t need to be complex. Sometimes, a little swoosh is all we need to rewire our experience.

The meditation experience yesterday has been more challenging than usual to articulate—like trying to catch a whisper in the wind. There was no image or word that came immediately to mind. The sensations started a couple of weeks ago during the BYOB course.* At that point, the words I heard were, “I’ll teach you to love.” It was almost too extravagant to believe—that I could access love, much less that some internal part of me was ready to be my teacher. It felt overwhelming, like a door opening, and I didn’t even attempt to put it into words. Now, though, the theme is repeating, and the sensations are becoming more believable and trustworthy… if that makes any sense. This image of otters from an Oracle card deck I have nailed the feeling. It was a lovely adventure to "accidentally" come across this image this morning and a perfect match. (image source: Colette Baron Reid Animal Spirit Oracle Cards.)

I realize I’ve built such an amazing protective system—my own emotional Fort Knox—that I barely knew it was there. My behaviors were and are so ingrained that only now am I learning to decipher what is kind and what is, well, not so much. On some level, admitting this feels vulnerable, maybe even a tad embarrassing. I know that “love,” like “God,” triggers my defenses. I’ve sidestepped both words, trading them in for something more palatable, less fraught. I wrote them off as too generic, overused, or packed with associations I wasn’t ready to unpack. They came loaded with guilt and sadness, worthiness and lack. The other day, I was watching movie trailers and realized just how much Hollywood has tried to define love for us—sunsets, slow-motion kisses, tragic misunderstandings. They make you feel as though they’ve cornered the market on defining love. But expectations are a funny thing; they lead to judgment, comparison, manipulation, and control. And, of course, once those enter the picture, love (and God) quietly slips out the back door.

Looking back, I’m amazed and astounded at how far I’ve come. I didn’t set out to redefine love with this journey. My goal was to bring my soul and personality into alignment, to quiet the nasty inner critic that’s made a home in my head. Along the way, it felt right to become a friend to my body, to actually try befriending my physical self. It’s funny, but that’s something I hadn’t tried before. I’ve negotiated with my “inner rebel” at times, even made some headway, but befriending myself? That was new territory.

And here I am now, with this unexpected invitation—an opening I hadn’t anticipated. I’m only 29 days into this practice, and I’m looking forward to seeing where this journey of self-compassion leads. Befriending my body is like learning a new language—awkward at first, but with a little practice, surprisingly rewarding. It’s little things, like listening to what I need or taking a few minutes to just breathe. And I’m grateful for the mantras I’ve adopted lately. Simple words, maybe, but they feel like shelter and direction when I need them most: There is nothing to fear. There is nothing to prove. There is nothing to fix. There is nothing wrong, and there is nothing missing.

​Each mantra brings its own kind of sanity. “Nothing to fear” invites courage, a reminder that life is safe to explore and that fear is 90% delusional. “Nothing to prove” tells me to let go of perfectionism, to stop comparing and judging my worth based on others’ expectations I’ve unknowingly taken on. “Nothing to fix” is a potent reminder that, most likely, “it’s not my circus and not my monkeys.” The chances are high that I am not responsible for fixing anything because, with a slight shift in perspective, everything is perfectly perfect as it is. And “nothing is missing” is my favorite of all—a deep reassurance that everything I need is already here within me.

Each phrase whispers a different invitation: release worry, drop expectations, step back from control, recognize completeness. These words are like a gentle hand on my shoulder, guiding me away from the need to do and toward the ability to simply be. With each reminder, I feel a bit closer to the friend I want to be to myself, someone who offers gentleness instead of judgment, who listens rather than insists.
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So, here’s to 29 more days of not tripping over my own self-discovery—and a big shout-out to my Guardian for the patience of a saint. Many thanks to whomever is tuning in to assist with this transmission. All is well.

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.

How did I not see this sooner? Today’s message was a wake-up call, bold and unmistakable, one that cut through the noise of years of “trying.” I’ve been focused on my thoughts, behaviors, and now, I realize, even more critically, my motives—the hidden drivers behind each choice I make for my body.

If I choose to lose weight, that’s fine. But what I choose to do to accomplish that is only a small piece of the puzzle. The real question has been: why? Today, the answer hit me, both frightening and enlightening. My motive has been vanity, approval, fitting in, and avoiding judgment. Turns out, it’s not about health—it’s been about looking good or being right. Somewhere along the way, I became the world’s most intense undercover agent, camouflaging myself to avoid judgment.

I went on a cleanse once as a desperate solution to a severe health challenge. It was driven by fear that I’d never feel healthy again. The motive wasn’t wellness; it was pain relief. I quit drinking because I was tired of morning tremors and wanted my partner’s approval. I quit smoking because of my constant coughing. Each time, it was my body crying out, and I was scrambling to silence it—not heal it. Not one of these changes was rooted in loving care; each one came from a place of desperation or control.

I’ve been using vice grips—harsh rules, intense self-discipline, and relentless control tactics—to force this body into shape. But let’s face it: this job requires kid gloves and the kind of patience reserved for first-time gardeners and careful sculptors. Holy shit, Sherlock! That’s all my body has known of “me,” its so-called caretaker—a drill sergeant rather than a friend. It’s downright embarrassing, honestly.

In the images that came during meditation, the message was clear… a vice grip dripping blood and tears. And I saw the truth in it. My body has endured because it’s resilient, and it’s willing, eager even, for a new kind of care. I’m re-doubling my efforts to be the kind and sweet friend, the gentle caretaker this body has deserved all along. 

After seeing the vice grip for what it was—a relentless attempt to control my body rather than nurture it—I realize I need to continue what I'm currently doing AND be open to a new foundational practice. I’m grateful for the mantras I’ve adopted lately. Simple words, perhaps, but they feel like shelter and direction when I need them most: There is nothing to fear. There is nothing to prove. There is nothing to fix. There is nothing wrong, and there is nothing missing.

Each one brings me a different kind of sanity. “Nothing to fear” invites courage, a reminder that life is safe to explore and that fear is 90% delusional. “Nothing to prove” gently tells me to let go of perfectionism, to stop comparing and judging my worth based on others’ expectations I’ve unknowingly taken on. “Nothing to fix” is a potent reminder that, most likely, “it’s not my circus and not my monkeys.” The chances are extremely high that I am not responsible for fixing anything, because a slight shift in perspective reveals things as perfectly perfect as they are. And “nothing is missing” is my favorite of all—a deep reassurance that everything I need is already here within me.

Each phrase whispers a different invitation: release worry, drop expectations, step back from control, recognize completeness. These words are like a gentle hand on my shoulder, guiding me away from the need to do and toward the ability to simply be. With each reminder, I feel a bit closer to the friend I want to be to myself, one who offers gentleness instead of judgment, who listens rather than insists.
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Can I forgive myself and move on? Can I release all the anger, pain, and fear that I’ve stuffed down, the emotions I numbed for so long? Can I allow the LOVE I've resisted? The power I've shyed away from? The responsibility I've avoided? Releasing anger and pain isn’t an easy one-step fix, I’m learning. For now, I know there’s nothing to do… just to be present and be kind, from this moment forward. My intention is internal alignment, to birth a new way of being and thinking and behaving. My body’s resilient—it’s seen me through more than a few questionable choices and hasn’t given up yet. I’m counting on it to forgive me, as bodies often do, with grace and a quiet readiness to move forward. All is well, and I’m feeling strangely confident that, this time, I’ll actually be listening.

The next day, I found I had no words to share with you, no images that could capture what I felt. Perhaps this is a time for all parts of my being to process quietly, away from words. So I offer this piece of art instead—a reflection, a fragment, a take-away from the third day. It speaks where I cannot, and maybe, that’s enough.

that's me
the tiny bird
in the hole
in the dark
in the middle
of the mound
covered by thorns
protected
thick and strong
hidden
pretending
I am safe
hidden
pretending
hidden, 
I sense a radiance,
I shiver to touch it,
a brilliance like the sun
is that me too?

Next to me in this hole was a huge energy source. A power beyond limits. Right there on the ground beside me inside the mound piled high was authentic power, vibrant and pulsing with a frequency off the charts. Holy crap, it scares the hell out of me. All that power. What on earth would I ever do with that? I mean, am I supposed to just pick it up and go with it?
The energy source hummed like something alive, as if it held a language of its own, practically vibrating with potential I didn’t yet trust myself to touch. It was beautiful and terrifying—a force both nurturing and consuming. What would I even become if I reached for it? And what if it decided it didn’t want to stick around, leaving me with a one-way ticket to Imposter Syndrome Central?

During the BYOB OSHO meditation, they introduced the concept of a Guardian. It sounds kind of serious, but honestly, it’s like having a bouncer for my soul—someone to keep an eye on the physical habits and behaviors that either keep me grounded or send me spiraling. The meditation invites you to ask this Guardian to toss out old patterns and bring in fresh new ones, as if we’re in the life-habit equivalent of spring cleaning. But, of course, nothing’s ever that easy. The Guardian might not reveal any grand wisdom right away because, apparently, decades-old behaviors don’t just pack up and leave. Who knew, right?

As I sat in meditation, I could practically feel the Guardian giving me that look—the one that says, “You’re finally ready, huh? Well, this is going to take some practice and courage.” This figure, part gentle intermediary, partdrill sergeant, part overprotective parent, was maintaining all the patterns I’ve perfected over the years. Comparing, judging, dodging responsibilities and hard conversations, doing mental gymnastics and numbing behaviors to avoid acknowledging my feelings—you name it, I had it down. I asked the Guardian to help me drop these like outdated fashion choices and maybe pick up something that actually fits who I am today.

Then I got this vision of a mound, a little like the one in my art piece, where the Guardian had wrapped me in this protective bubble. And sure, I was managing, feeling safe, maybe a little too cozy. But after this meditation, I know I’m ready for more. Here’s the kicker, though: that insane power sitting next to me? I realized didn't even know that part of me existed. I sit in awe of the expansive freedom and joy available. The link between love, responsibility, and power is shown but not explained. I am still intent upon allowing Love to enter where there hasn't been any, possibly ever. I have no clue how this authentic power fits into the overall execution, practice, or picture I have for myself. I do get that consistency and stretch are required to continue the journey to expansion and serenity.
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Patience and practice—two mantras that seem to love showing up on this path. I’ve realized that if the bird is ever going to fly, it’s going to be one slow, cautious flap at a time. This power? I’m not here to bulldoze into it. I’ll work with it every day, get to know it. Maybe with enough patience, I’ll figure out what it’s trying to teach me. But for now, I’m okay taking it one clumsy step at a time, letting the Guardian roll its eyes and sigh while I do my best not to get in my own way.

The OSHO International course I joined on 10/23/2024, titled Reminding Yourself of the Forgotten Language of Talking to Your BodyMind, The complete description is in the link.... if the link still works. Curious that this November course includes optional facilitator training. I am always first thinking how to give away everything that I learn. I have come to notice these are frequently the first thoughts I observe when sitting... "how could I facilitate a course to give away this wonderful experience to others?" I get to let that go and consider how I may absorb the experience myself and not be so easily distracted! I digress... 

The course is structured, entirely online through Zoom, and involves minimal verbal interaction. There's a warm welcome and clear guidance, but unlike the more interactive No Mind class, this one encourages a quiet, inward focus. A "mild" trance state is recommended, with no need for conscious thought, analysis, or note-taking—just a connection with the inner realms. The feeling is mysteriously serene, urging stillness and a reawakening to this "forgotten language." My main takeaway from the first session was unmistakably clear: "LISTEN." When I later created art, I added the wry reminder, "JUST shut up and LISTEN."

What does it mean to truly listen? For me, it requires suspending distracting, often unhelpful thoughts—judgment, expectations, and especially the reflex to analyze or defend my perspective. True listening invites honesty, openness, and a willingness to stay present despite these distractions. It’s challenging, as both internal voices and physical, environmental aspects conspire to derail the focus. Still, each return to the subject of the listening deepens the practice, making this practice a transformative process.

The command to "listen" may seem simple but not easy. Yet it’s anything but simple. It encapsulates complex layers of spiritual, mental, and physical insight, shaping an intention that could serve as a core principle throughout life. Much like Love, Power, or Responsibility, it’s fundamental to balance of genuine compassion and self-expression. Do you hear the creative muse? The guiding parent? The subtle messages from your own body?

Our facilitator reads from a script during the 50-minute sessions, rich in language that prompts breakthrough perspectives. Each body part seems to have its own way of communicating—through images, feelings, memories, and even words. To interpret these subtle cues requires discernment and a gentle patience. I get the impression that the body is shy, like a meek animal hidden in the woods. You must sit in the clearing for hours just to catch a glimpse. I hope this is not the case. I have patience, but not that much patience. 
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As I settle into each session, I feel the boundaries of my awareness shifting, growing more sensitive to the body’s signals. It’s like tuning into a low-frequency radio station that becomes clearer as I let go of distractions. I am, for the first time, learning to “hear” my body speak in a language uniquely its own. What it offers in terms of insight is astounding and humbling.

Reflecting on the course so far, I feel this practice could go well beyond the meditation sessions. This understanding of deep listening could influence my life in subtle but powerful ways. I find myself more attuned to my body in daily moments, like a quiet undercurrent of awareness. This awareness touches my relationships, too, encouraging me to listen without immediately thinking of my response or opinion.

Already, I’m sensing shifts in how I approach daily interactions. By simply listening—without jumping to conclusions, judgments, or responses—I find a new ease in connecting with others. Conversations feel less pressured, more fluid, as I allow my own silence to create space for what truly needs to be expressed. This shift in focus is affecting how I handle challenges as well; by first tuning into the body’s response to a stressful moment or difficult news, I feel more grounded and centered, better equipped to respond rather than react.

I also sense this approach deepening my creativity. There’s a curious interplay between listening and creating: by silencing the mind, I’m better able to hear intuitive nudges and ideas that seem to emerge from within. Rather than “trying” to create, I feel as though I’m receiving insights from a quieter, more authentic place. This practice is beginning to feel like an essential ingredient in accessing a deeper layer of creativity, one that feels effortless and profoundly connected.

I’m eager to continue this journey, to discover the language of my own body, and perhaps even cultivate a new way of being—a kind of openness that transcends traditional listening. This is listening as an act of reverence, a way to honor my body, emotions, and inner self. The urge to “teach” or facilitate remains, but it now feels less like an obligation and more like an inevitable outcome of living this new awareness. I can’t yet say what the full impact of this practice will be, but I’m excited to find out.
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Stay tuned—I’m listening.